In the height of its glory, summer puts on the flaming and thundering crown of mighty storms, and assumes the air of a king over the earth.

You, too, sometimes, let your fury rise, and your eyes flash and your voice is angry, and this becomes you well, though I, in my folly, may sometimes weep at it.

But never, I pray you, behave thus toward me on the water, or even when we are near it.

You see, my relatives would then acquire a right over me.

They would unrelentingly tear me from you in their rage; because they would imagine that one of their race was injured, and I should be compelled all my life to dwell below in the crystal palaces, and should never dare to ascend to you again; or they would send me up to you--and that, oh God, would be infinitely worse.