I’ve seen many beautiful mornings in which the sun beautifies the mountaintops, kissing the green meadows with its golden face and making streams sparkle as if by magic. But then it suddenly permits the nastiest clouds to ride across its heavenly face, and it hides from the forlorn world, sneaking off to the west in disgrace. In exactly this way, early one morning my sun shone on my face with triumphant splendor, but alas he was only mine for one hour. The clouds have hidden him from me now. But I don’t fault him for this at all. Golden men like him can disgrace themselves as much as the real sun does.
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