Here he rises from his meditations and goes to his window; his high room is too close to him, he would like to see stars, if that is possible. He has no delusions about himself. He knows that this emotion fills him because among the young girls of his neighborhood there is one who matters to him. He has wishes (not for himself, no, but for her); on her account he understands, in a nocturnal hour that is passing, the exigence of love. He promises himself to tell her nothing of it. It seems to him the utmost he can do is to be alone and wakeful and on her account to think how right that lover had been: when she knew that nothing can be meant by union save increased loneliness; when she broke through the temporal aim of sex with its infinite purpose; when in the darkness of embracing she delved not for satisfaction but for longing. When she disdained one of two being the lover and one beloved, and at her own self kindled to lovers that left her those feeble beloved ones whom she bore to her couch. By such lofty farewells her heart became part of nature. Above fate she sang her last year's favorites their epithalamia; exalted their nuptials for them; magnified the coming bridegroom, so that they should prepare themselves for him as for a god and survive his splendor, too.