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to face.’ To see the unity in the variety was the
aim and end of all her philosophy and her
poetry.
Has she reached this end now? Our thought
cannot fathom this possibility, but our heart
beats with a trembling hope which breaks the
point of death’s bitterness.
Besides, she had always wished to die young.
Though hers seemed an inexhaustible well of
life, ready for every new impression, open to
every joy, great or small, in the innermost recess
of her heart there was a thirst, which this life
could never satisfy. As her mind craved absolute
truth, absolute light, so her heart craved absolute
love—a completeness which human life does
not yield, and which her own character in
particular rendered impossible. It was this discord
that consumed her. If we start from her own
belief in a fundamental connection between all
phenomena of life, we see that she was bound
to die, not because some strong and destructive
microbes had settled in her lungs, or because
the chances of her life had not brought her the
happiness she desired, but because the necessary
organic connection between her inward and
outward life was missing; because there was no
harmony between her thought and her feeling,
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