[Regentag, No. 7]
Some rainy days are exquisite. In the morning, between eight and nine, the sun peers between damp veils. Soon it vanishes from view and the clouds descend, dark and gloomy. Slowly it begins to rain, and one knows it will not stop till evening. Haste, enterprise and curiosity take a holiday, and today will become a quiet day of rest. Things near, small, and isolated command attention: a puddle on the pathway, a growing rivulet in the ditch, a peasant woman with an umbrella. In the afternoon I sit at my window, the dark-red wine sparkling in the decanter from which I calmly drink, my thoughts turned toward the passing of the hours. O wondrous day of rest, tranquil patter on the roof, and leisure that can only be enjoyed here!
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