The Sorrows of Young Werther

I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how she dares love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other possession.

vowed this morning that I would not ride today, and yet every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.

No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity.

I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past

How could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you mine for ever? Charlotte, ages cannot efface the impression—I feel you cannot hate

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me.

What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words. Today I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art?

but it is too much for my strength—I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!

I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be.

Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart.