The poems of Heine; Complete - Heinrich Heine

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Around her lips a childlike smile play’d.

      And see! from her fair and flowing tresses

       She steals a lock, as she thus addresses

       In a heavenly tone, the raptured boy:

       The sweetest reward on earth enjoy!

      What attests this consecration?

       Saw’st thou not the rainbow shedding

       Its sublime illumination,

       O’er the wide horizon spreading?

      Angels up and down are moving,

       Loudly do their pinions flutter;

       Breathing music strange and loving,

       Sweet the melodies they utter.

      Well the stripling knows the yearning

       Through his frame that now doth quiver;

       To that land his footsteps turning,

       Where the myrtle blooms for ever.

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      To my sleeping dear Zuleima’s

       Bosom run, ye tears all burning!

       Then will her sweet heart for Abdul

       ’Gin to beat with tender yearning.

      Round my sleeping dear Zuleima’s

       Ear disport, ye tears of anguish!

       Then will her fair head in vision

      O’er my sleeping dear Zuleima’s

       Soft hand stream, my heart’s blood gushing!

       Then will her sweet hand bear on it

       Abdul’s heart’s blood, crimson flushing.

      Sorrow is, alas, born voiceless,

       In its mouth no tongue is growing,

       It hath only tears and sighing,

       And blood from the heart’s wounds flowing.

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      The day was glowing, my heart, too, glow’d,

       In silence I bore my sorrow’s load;

       When night arrived, I hastened then

       To the blossoming rose in the silent glen.

      I softly approach’d, and mute as the grave,

       While tears my cheeks did secretly lave,

       I peep’d in the cup of the rose so fair,

       And lo! a bright light was glimmering there.

      By the rose I joyfully fell asleep,

       When a sweet mocking dream did over me creep;

       The form of a rosy maid was reveal’d;

       A rosy bodice her bosom conceal’d.

      She gave me soon a rich golden store,

       To a golden cottage the prize I bore;

       Strange goings-on in the cottage I found—

       Small elves are dancing in graceful round.

      Twelve dancers are dancing, and taking no rest,

       And closely their hands together are press’d;

       And soon as a dance has come to a close,

       Another begins, and each merrily goes.

      And the music they dance to thus sounds in my ear:

       “The happiest of hours will ne’er reappear,

       “The whole of thy life was only a dream,

       “And this hour of pleasure a dream within dream.”

      The dream is over, the sun is up,

       I eagerly peep in the rose’s cup.

       Alas! in the place of the glimmering light,

       A nasty insect meets my sight.

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      Mother tells little bee,

       Yonder wax taper flee;

       But for his mother’s prayers

       Little bee little cares.

      Round the light hovers he,

       Humming all merrily;

       Mother’s cry hears not he,

       Little bee! Little bee!

      Youthful one! Foolish one!

       Poor little simpleton!

       In the flame rusheth he,

       Little bee! Little bee!

      Now the flame flickers high,

       In the flame he must die:

       ’Ware of the maidens, then,

       Sons of men! Sons of men!

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      I’m drawn to the North by a golden star;

       Farewell, brother! forget me not when I am far;

       To poetry ever faithful abide,

       And never desert that charming bride.

       As a priceless treasure preserve in thy breast

       The German language so fair and blest;

       And shouldst thou e’er come to the Northern strand

       O listen awhile at that Northern strand;

       And list till thou hearest a ringing remote

       That over the silent waters doth float.

       When this thou hearest, expect ere long

       The sound of the well-known minstrel’s song.

       Then strike thou in turn thine echoing chord,

       And give me news that may pleasure afford;

       How matters with thee, dear minstrel, go,

       And with the others whom I loved so;

       And how it fares with the lovely girl

       Who set so many young hearts in a whirl,

       And filled so many with yearnings divine—

       The blossoming rose on the blossoming Rhine.

       And give me news of my fatherland too,

       If still ’tis the land of affection true;

       If still the old God in Germany lives,

      

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