How happy I am, my friend, to be far from the tumult of life, to rest in this place of peace, to enjoy this spring that penetrates to the depths of my soul. This garden, this valley, this stream, everything speaks to me in such a sweet and familiar language! Every day, I walk in these meadows, I sit under this lime tree, and I feel that nature is a friend to me, an inexhaustible source of joy. Yesterday, I stayed a long time watching the sunset; the clouds were tinted with purple and gold, and the distant mountains seemed to bathe in a hazy light. I remembered you, my dear Wilhelm, and our conversations on the beauty of the world. How I miss you! But here, I am well, despite everything. The inhabitants of this village are simple and good; they welcomed me cordially. The curate above all is a good man, who knows plants and stars; he showed me his garden, where he cultivates medicinal herbs. I also made the acquaintance of the bailiff's daughter, Lotte; she is as beautiful as an angel, and her goodness is even greater than her beauty. I saw her for the first time at the ball, and since that day, I think of nothing else. She dances with such natural grace, she laughs so frankly, she speaks with so much sensitivity that I am completely charmed. But I must not let myself be carried away by this passion; I know that my heart is prone to excess, and that I could suffer cruelly. Yet, I cannot help seeing her again, speaking to her, hearing her. Today, I went for a walk alone in the forest; I gathered wild flowers, I listened to the song of the birds, and I thought of her. O my friend, how beautiful life is when one loves! But how close pain is when one loves too much! I will try to moderate my feelings, to content myself with friendship, not to disturb the peace of her heart. She loves another, a good young man, Albert, who is entirely worthy of her. I must not separate them, nor even wish it. I will suffer in silence, I will hide my tears, and I will continue to see Lotte, as a brother sees his sister. But is this possible? When I look at her, when I feel her hand in mine, when I hear her sweet voice, my whole being is troubled, and I am no longer master of myself. Yesterday, I stayed at her house until midnight; we spoke of death, of immortality, of eternal life. She said that those who die young are blessed, because they have not known the sorrows of old age. I answered her that death is a sleep, a passage to another existence. She wept while listening to a song that I sang at the piano. Her tears flowed down her cheeks, and I had the urge to wipe them away, but I did not dare. I left precipitately, my heart torn. Now, I am alone in my room, the lamp is burning, and I am writing these lines to confide my torments to you. I do not know what the future holds for me, but I feel that this love is consuming me. Perhaps I should leave, travel, forget. But how could I leave Lotte? She is my sun, my air, my life. Without her, I would be only a wandering shadow. My friend, advise me, write to me quickly, tell me what I must do. I am lost in an ocean of feelings. Nature, which was so sweet to me, now seems cruel; it constantly reminds me of its beauty, and I can only suffer. I am going to try to sleep, but I know that I will dream of her. Farewell, dear Wilhelm. Think of me, and write to me soon. I embrace you with all my heart. Your friend, Werther.