ihr zu einem goettlichen Ganzen
vereint."[66] It would be difficult to conceive of a more complete and
sublime eulogy of any object of affection than the words just quoted,
and yet they do not conceal their author's etherial quality of thought,
his "Uebersinnlichkeit." Even his boyish love-affairs seem to have been
largely of this character, and were in all likelihood due to the
necessity which he felt of bestowing his affection somewhere, rather
than to irresistible forces proceeding from the objects of his regard.

Lack of self-restraint, so often characteristic of the poet of
Weltschmerz, was not Hoelderlin's greatest fault. And yet if his intense
devotion to Susette remained undebased by sensual desires, as we know it
did, this was not solely due to the practice of heroic self-restraint,
but must be attributed in part to the fact that that side of his nature
was entirely subordinate to his higher ideals; and these were always a
stronger passion with Hoelderlin than his love. So that Diotima's
judgment of Hyperion is correct when she says: "O es ist so ganz
natuerlich, dass Du nimmer lieben willst, weil Deine groessern Wuensche
verschmachten."[67] This consideration at once compels a comparison with
Lenau, which must be deferred, however, until the succeeding chapter.
Undoubtedly this year and a half at Frankfurt was the happiest period of
his whole life. It brought him a serenity of mind which he had never
before known. Ardent was the response called forth by his devotion, but
its influence was wholesome--it was soothing to his sensitive nerves.
And because it was altogether more a sublime than an earthly passion, he
indulged himself in it with a conscience void of offence. Doubtless he
correctly describes the influence of his relations with Diotima upon his
life when he writes: "Ich sage Dir, lieber Neuffer! ich bin auf dem
Wege, ein recht guter Knabe zu werden.... mein Herz ist voll Lust, und
wenn das heilige Schicksal mir mein gluecklich Leben erhaelt, so hoff' ich
kuenftig mehr zu thun als bisher."[68] But the happy life was not to
continue long. Rudely the cup was dashed from his lips, and the poet's
pain intensified by one more disappointment--the bitterest of all he had
experienced. It filled him with thoughts of revenge, which he was
powerless to execute. There can be no question that if his love for
Susette had been of a less etherial order, less a thing of the soul, he
would have felt much less bitterly her