The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Heine.

My little songs do I utter
From out of my great, great sorrow;
Some tinkling pinions they borrow,
And tow’rd her bosom they flutter.

They found it, and over it hover’d,
But soon return’d they, complaining,
And yet to tell me disdaining
What they in her bosom discover’d.

Sweet darling, beloved by me solely,
The thoughts in my memory dwell
That once I possess’d thee wholly,
Thy soul and body as well.

Thy body, so young and tender,
I need, beyond all doubt;
Thy soul to the tomb I’ll surrender,
I’ve plenty of soul without.

I’ll cut my soul in sunder,
And half of it breathe into thee,
And when I embrace thee,—O wonder!—
One soul and body we’ll be.

The blockheads, their holidays keeping,
Are walking through forest and plain;
They shout, and like kittens are leaping,
And hail sweet Nature again.

They gaze, with glances that glisten,
On each romantic thing;
With ears like asses they listen
To hear the sparrows sing.

My chamber window to darken,
With black cloth I hang it by day;
To the signal my spirits straight hearken,
Day-visits they hasten to pay.

My olden love also draws nigh me,
From the realms of the dead she appears;
She, weeping, sits gently close by me,
And softens my bosom to tears.

Many visions of times long vanish’d
Arise from out of their tomb,
And show me how once in thy presence
I lived in my life’s young bloom.

All day I mournfully totter’d
Through the streets, as though in a dream
The people gazed on me with wonder,
So silent and sad did I seem.

The night-time suited me better,
Deserted the streets were then,
And I and my shadow together
We wandered in silence again.

With footsteps echoing loudly
I wander’d over the bridge;
The moon with solemn look hail’d me
As she burst through the cloudy ridge.

I stood in front of thy dwelling,
And fondly gazed up on high;
I gazed up towards thy window,
My heart breathed many a sigh.

Well know I that thou from the window
Full often hast gazed below,
And in the moonlight hast seen me
Stand fix’d, the image of woe.

A youth once loved a maiden,
Who loved another instead;
The other himself loved another,
And with the latter did wed.
The maiden, in scornful anger,
Straight married the first of the men
Who happened to come across her,—
The youth was heart-broken then.
’Tis only an old, old story,
And yet it ever seems new;
The heart of him whom it pictures
Will soon be broken in two.

Friendship, love, philosophers’ stone,—
These three things men value alone.
I, too, valued and sought them ever,
But, alas, discovered them never.

On hearing the strains enthralling
That my loved one sang to me erst,
With torments fierce and appalling
My heart is ready to burst.
Impell’d by a gloomy yearning
I seek in the forest relief,
And there in tears hotly burning
I quench my anguish and grief.

The child of a king in dream have I seen;
How tear-stain’d and pallid her face is,
As we quietly sit ’neath the linden green,
Held fast in each other’s embraces!

“Thy father’s throne is nothing to me,
Nor yet his sceptre all golden,
And diamond crown; for nothing but thee,
Sweet love, will I be beholden.”

“That may not be,” the maiden replied,
For I in my grave am lying,
And only by night can I be by thy side,
To thy loving caresses replying.”

Sweet love, in fond converse together
In the light canoe sat we,
Still the night was, and calm was the weather,
As we skimm’d o’er the wide-spreading sea.

The fair spirit-islands before us
In the glimmering moonlight lay;
Sweet tones came floating o’er us,
While the mists were dancing in play.

On danced they with merrier motion,
And sweeter still sounded the song;
But over the boundless ocean
We mournfully floated along.

From older legends springing,
Appears a snow-white band
With joyous strains, and singing,
From some far magic-land,

Where flowers in glowing splendour
Pine in the evening sun,
And bridal glances tender
Cast sweetly every one;

Where all the trees, uniting
In chorus, shout below,
And bubbling brooks delighting
The ear, like music flow;

And love-songs fierce and burning
Unheard of bliss impart,
Till sweet and wondrous yearning
Befools the throbbing heart.

Ah, could I thither travel,
And ease my aching breast,
And all my grief unravel,
And there be free and blest!

That land, whence care and trouble
Are banish’d, that in dreams
Oft see I, like a bubble
Dissolves, when morning beams.

I’ve loved thee long, and I love thee still
And e’en if the world were shatter’d,
My glowing love would glisten and thrill,
Though widely earth’s ruins were scatter’d.
. . . . . . . . . .
And when I thus have loved thee so well
Till the hour of death has sounded,
I’ll take with me e’en to my tomb’s dark cell
My love-pangs fierce and unbounded.

In the glimmering summer morning
I pace the garden alone;
The flowers are whisp’ring and speaking,
But silently wander I on.

The flowers are whisp’ring and speaking,
My form with compassion they scan:
O pray be kind to our sister,
Thou mournful and pale-faced man!

Her dark attire thus wearing
My love appears to my sight
Like a tale of sorrow despairing
That’s told in the long summer night:

“In the magical garden there wander
“Two lovers mute and alone;
“Sweet sing the nightingales yonder,
“The moonbeams are over them thrown.

“Like a statue the maiden stands mildly,
“At her feet the faithful knight lies;
“The forest giant comes wildly,
“The sorrowing maiden soon flies.

“Soon the knight on the ground lies all gory,
“The giant goes home at his ease—”
And when I am buried, the story
Is ended as soon as you please.

They often have vex’d me sadly
And worried me early and late;
While some with their love have annoy’d me,
The others pursued me with hate.

My bread they have utterly poison’d,
And poison’d my cup too of late;
While some with their love have annoy’d me,
The others pursued me with hate.

But she who more than all others
Has vex’d me, and worried, and chafed,
She only with hate ne’er pursued me,
She only her love ne’er vouchsafed.

There lies the glow of summer
Upon thy cheek confess’d,
And in thine heart cold winter
Has made its place of rest.

All this will soon be alter’d,
My dearest love and best,
The winter on thy cheek be,
The summer in thy breast!

When two fond lovers are parted,
They give each other the hand,
To weep and to sigh beginning,
And losing all self-command.

But not one single tear wept we,
No Ah! or Alas! did we sigh;
Our tears and our sighs both together
Too surely came by-and-by.

They sat round the tea-table drinking
And speaking of love a great deal;
The men of æsthetics were thinking,
The ladies more prone were to feel.

“All love ought to be but platonical”
The wither’d old counsellor said;
His wife by a smile quite ironical
Rejoin’d, and then sighed “Ah!” instead.

Said the canon with visage dejected:
“Love ne’er should be suffered to go
“Too far, or the health is affected;”
The maiden then simper’d: “How so?”

The Countess her sad feelings vented,
Said “Love is a passion, I’m sure,”
And then to the Baron presented
His cup with politeness demure.

A place was still empty at table;
My darling, ’twas thou wert away;
Thou hadst been so especially able
The tale of thy love, sweet, to say.

My songs with poison are tainted,
But how could it otherwise be?
My blossoming life thou hast poison’d,
And made it hateful to me.

My songs with poison are tainted,
But how could it otherwise be?
In my heart many serpents I carry,
And thee too, my dearest love, thee.

I dreamt once more the vision of yore:
The time was a fair May even,
We sat ’neath the linden, and there we swore
To be faithful, in presence of heaven.

And once and again we plighted our troth,
And titter’d, caress’d, kiss’d so dearly;
And lest I should fail to remember my oath,
My hand thou then bittest severely.

O sweetest love, with the eyes so bright,
O sweet one, so fair and so biteful!
The swearing was doubtless all proper and right
But the biting was rather too spiteful!

I stand on the brow of the mountain,
And sentimentally sigh.
“O were I only a bird now!”
I many a thousand times cry.

O were I only a swallow,
My darling, to thee would I fly,
And soon a nest would I build me,
Thy lattice window hard by.

O were I a nightingale only,
I would fly, my darling, to thee,
And sing my sweet songs by night-time
Perch’d high in the green linden tree.

O were I only a bullfinch,
I would fly straight into thy heart;
To the bullfinch thou always wert kindly,
And healest the bullfinch’s smart.[7]

My carriage is traversing slowly
The greenwood merry and bright,
Through flowering valleys, like magic
Illumed by the sun’s glowing light.

I’m sitting and thinking and dreaming,
And muse on my mistress dear;
When, nodding their heads at the window,
Three shadowy figures appear.

They skip and they make wry grimaces,
So scoffing and yet so shy;
And twirling mist-like together,
They titter and haste swiftly by.

In vision I lately was weeping,
I dreamt thou wert laid in thy grave;
I awoke, and the tears unceasing
My cheeks continued to lave.

In vision I lately was weeping,
I dreamt I was left, love, by thee;
I awoke, and weeping continued
Both long and bitterly.

In vision I lately was weeping,
I dreamt thou wert kind as of yore;
I awoke, and my tears in torrents
Continued to flow as before.

All night in vision behold I thee,
And see thee greeting me kindly;
And loudly weeping then throw I me
Before thy sweet feet blindly.

With sorrowing looks thou stand’st in my view,
Thy fair locks mournfully shaking;
While teardrops bright of pearly hue
From thy dear eyes are breaking.

A gentle word thou dost secretly say,
And givest a cypress-wreath sweetly;
I awake, and the wreath has vanish’d away,
And the word is forgotten completely.

’tis autumn, the night’s dark and gloomy
With rain and tempest above;
Where tarries,—O tell it unto me,—
My poor and sorrowing love?

By the window I see her reclining,
In her chamber lonely and drear,
And out in the night, sadly pining,
She looks with many a tear.

The trees in the autumn wind rustle,
The night is humid and cold;
I ride all alone in the forest,
And round me my grey cloak I fold.

And as I am riding, before me
My thoughts unrestrainedly roam;
They lightly and airily bear me
To my own dear mistress’s home.

The dogs are barking, the servants
With glittering torches appear;
I climb up the winding staircase,
My spurs ring loudly and clear.

In her bright-lighted tapestry chamber,
So full of magical charms,
My own sweet darling awaits me,
I hasten into her arms.

The wind in the leaves is sighing,
The oak thus whispers to me:
“What means, thou foolish young horseman,
“Thy foolish reverie?”

A glittering star is falling
From its shining home in the air;
The star of love ’tis surely
That I see falling there.

The blossoms and leaves in plenty
From the apple tree fall each day;
The merry breezes approach them,
And with them merrily play.

The swan in the pool is singing,
And up and down doth he steer,
And, singing gently ever,
Dips under the water clear.

All now is silent and darksome,
The leaves and blossoms decay,
The star has crumbled and vanish’d,
The song of the swan died away.

The Dream-God brought me to a castle vast,
Where magic fragrance reign’d and lights were gleaming,
And through its mazy-winding chambers pass’d
A chequer’d throng, still onward, onward streaming.
The pale crowd seek the exit-portal fast,
Wringing their hands, and full of terror screaming,
And knights and maidens mingle in the throng,
And I myself am with them borne along.

But suddenly I stand alone, for, lo,
The crowd hath vanish’d and from sight departed;
I wander on, and through the chambers go,
All strangely winding, silent and deserted;
My foot is leaden, and I scarcely know
How to escape, thus sadden’d and faint-hearted.
At length the farthest portal I descry,
And seek to pass—great heavens, what meets mine eye!

It was my love, who at the door did stand,
Grief on her lips, her brow in tribulation.
I sought to fly,—she beckon’d with her hand,
Whether to warn me, or in indignation;
Yet gleam’d her eye like some sweet glowing brand,
Setting my heart and brain in conflagration.
And as she gazed with looks of passion deep,
Blended with sternness, I awoke from sleep.

The midnight was cold, in plaintive mood
I wander’d mournfully through the wood;
I shook the trees from out of their sleep,
They shook their heads with pity deep.

Beneath the crossway buried,
The suicide lies here,
Where grows a charming blue flow’ret,
The culprit-flower so dear.

I stood by the crossway sighing,
The night was chilly and drear,
While slowly moved in the moonlight
The culprit-flower so dear.

Wheresoe’er I go, there darkles
Round me gloom and utter night,
Now that there no longer sparkles
On me, love, thine eyes’ sweet light.

Quench’d are all the golden blisses
That love’s star upon me smil’d;
’Neath my feet the dread abyss is,—
Night primeval, take thy child!

Night lay upon mine eyelids,
Upon my mouth lay lead;
I in my grave was lying,
With frozen heart and head.

How long it was I know not
That I in slumber lay;
I woke and heard a knocking
Upon my grave one day.

“Wilt thou not rise up, Henry?
“The Judgment Day is this,
“The dead have all arisen,
“To taste of endless bliss.”

I cannot rise, my darling,
For I have lost my sight;
Mine eyes, through very weeping,
Are veil’d in darkest night.

“I’ll kiss away the darkness,
“My Henry, from thine eyes;
“The angels shalt thou see then,
“The glory of the skies.”

I cannot rise, my darling,
The wound is bleeding yet,
Made by thee in my bosom
With one sharp word and threat.

“My hand all gently, Henry,
“I’ll lay upon thy heart;
“It then will bleed no longer,
“And heal’d will be the smart.”

I cannot rise, my darling,
My head still bleeds amain!
’Twas there the bullet enter’d,
When thou wert from me ta’en.

“With my long tresses, Henry,
“I’ll stanch the bleeding wound,
“And drive the blood-stream backwards,
“And make thy head thus sound.”

So gently, sweetly pray’d she,
I could not spurn her prayer;
I sought to rise and hasten
To join my mistress fair.

Then all my wounds ’gan bleeding,
Then, wildly rushing, broke
From head and breast the bloodstream,
And lo!—from sleep I woke.

The numbers old and evil,
The dreams so harrowing,
Let’s bury all together,—
A mighty coffin bring!

I’ll place there much, but say not
What ’tis, till all is done;
The coffin must be larger
Than Heidelberg’s vast tun.

And also bring a death-bier,
Of boards full stout and sound;
They also must be longer
Than Mayence bridge renown’d.

And also bring twelve giants
Whose strength of limb excels
Saint Christopher’s, whose shrine in
Cologne Cathedral dwells.

The coffin they must carry,
And sink beneath the wave;
For such a mighty coffin
Must have a mighty grave.

Why was the coffin, tell me,
So great and hard to move?
I in it placed my sorrows,
And in it placed my love.

Fair May has come with her bright golden radiance
And silken gales and fragrant spicy odours,
And kindly lures us with her snowy blossoms,
And from a thousand blue-eyed violets greets us,
And spreads abroad her flowery verdant carpet,
With morning dew and sunshine interwoven,
And summons all her favourite human children.
At her first call the bashful people come;
The men in haste put on their nankeen breeches,
And Sunday coats with golden glassy buttons;
The women don the white of innocence,
The youths take care to curl their spring-mustachios,
The maidens bid their bosoms softly heave;
The city poets cram into their pockets
Paper, lead-pencil, and lorgnette; and gaily
The eddying moving crowd draw near the gateway,
And lie at ease on the green turf beyond,
Amazed to see how much the trees have sprouted,—
Play with the tender colour’d flowerets fair,
List to the song of merry birds above them,
And shout exulting tow’rds the vault of heaven.

To me came also May, and three times knock’d she
Against my door and cried: “Behold sweet May!
“Thou palefaced dreamer, come, I fain would kiss thee!”
But I my door kept bolted, and I cried:
“In vain thou seek’st to tempt me, evil stranger.
“I long have seen thee through, I’ve seen through also
“The fabric of the world, and seen too much,
“And much too deep, and fled is all my pleasure,
“And endless torments quiver in my heart.
“I see through all the stony hard outsides
“Of human houses and of human bosoms,
“And see in both deceit and woe and falsehood.
“I’ve learnt to read the thoughts on every face,—
“All evil! In the maiden’s shamefaced blushes
“I see the trembling of a secret lust;
“On the inspired and haughty head of youth
“I see the laughing chequer’d fool’s cap jingling;
“And caric’tures alone and sickly shadows
“I see upon this earth, and live in doubt
“Whether a madhouse ’tis, or hospital.
“The old earth’s crust I see through but too plainly
“As though it were of crystal,—see the horrors
“Which May is vainly striving to conceal
“With pleasing verdure. There I see the dead;
“They lie beneath, in their small coffins prison’d,
“With hands together folded, eyes wide open,
“White is their garment, white their face as well,
“And yellow worms from out their lips are crawling.
“I see the son with his loved mistress sitting
“And toying with her on his father’s grave.
“Derisive songs the nightingales are singing,
“The gentle meadow flow’rets laugh with malice,
“And the dead father moveth in his grave,
“While the old mother-earth with pain doth shudder.”
O thou poor earth, thy sorrows know I well!
I see the glow that in thy breast is heaving,
Thy thousand veins I see all bleeding freely,
And see thy gaping wounds all, all torn open,
While flames and smoke and blood stream wildly forth.
I see thy proud defiant giant-children,
Primeval monsters, from dark gulfs arising
And swinging ruddy torches in their hands.
Their iron scaling-ladders they advance,
And wildly rush to storm the forts of heaven,
And swarthy dwarfs climb after them; with crackling
Each golden star on high like dust is scatter’d.
With daring hand they tear the golden curtain
From God’s own tent; the blessèd troops of angels
Fall headlong down with howling at the sight.
The pale God sits upon his awful throne,
Tears from his head his crown, and tears his hair.—
Still onward, onward press the savage crew,
The giants fiercely hurl their blazing torches
Into the realms of heaven, the dwarfs strike wildly
With flaming scourges on the angels’ backs,
Who twist and writhe in ecstasy of anguish,
And by the hair are seized and whirl’d away.
And my own angel likewise see I there,
With his blond locks, his sweet expressive features,
With everlasting love around his mouth,
And with beatitude in his blue eyes.
A fearful hideous swarthy goblin comes,
Tears him from off the ground, my poor pale angel,
Grins as he ogles his fair noble limbs,
And clasps him firmly in his soft embraces,—
A yell re-echoes through the universe,
The pillars crash, and earth and heaven are hurl’d
Headlong together, and old night is lord.

The Dream-God brought me to a landscape fair
Where weeping willows nodded me a welcome
With their long verdant arms, and where the flowers
Gazed on me mutely with wise sisters’ eyes,
Where the birds’ twittering resounded sweetly,
Where the dogs’ barking seem’d to me familiar,
And voices kindly greeted me, and figures,
Like an old friend, and yet where everything
Appear’d so strange, beyond description strange.
Before a pretty country-house I stood,
My bosom in me moving, but my head
All peaceful, and the dust with calmness shook I
From off my travelling garments; shrilly sounded
The bell I rang, and then the door was open’d.

Inside were men and women, many faces
To me well known. Still sorrow lay on all,
And secret fearful grief. With strange emotion,
Wellnigh with looks of pity, on me gazed they
Till my own soul with terror was pervaded,
As though foreboding some unknown misfortune.
Old Margaret I straightway recognized,
Gazed on her fixedly, but yet she spake not.
“Where is Maria?” ask’d I, yet she spake not,
But softly seized my hand, and led me on
Through many a long and brightly-lighted chamber,
Where splendour, pomp, and deathlike silence reign’d
And to a darksome room at length she brought me,
And, with her face averted from me, pointed
Toward the form that sat upon the sofa.
“Art thou Maria?” ask’d I. Inwardly
I was myself astounded at the firmness
With which I spoke. Like stone and hollow
Sounded a voice: “That is the name they call me.”
A piercing agony straight froze me through,
For that cold hollow tone, alas, was yet
The once enchanting voice of my Maria!
And yonder woman in pale lilac dress,
In negligent attire, with unveil’d bosom,
With glassy staring eyes, like leather seeming
The muscles of the cheeks of her white face,—
Alas, that woman once was the most lovely,
The blooming, pleasing, sweet and kind Maria!
“Your travels have been long” she said aloud
In cold, unpleasing, but familiar accents,—
“You look no longer languishing, my friend,
“You’re well in health, your loins and calves elastic.
“Show your solidity.” A silly smile
Play’d the while round her yellow, pallid mouth.
In my confusion utter’d I these accents:
“I’ve been inform’d that thou art married now?”
“Ah yes!” she carelessly replied with laughing:
“I have a stick of wood that’s cover’d over
“With leather, call’d a husband. Still, for all that,
“Wood is but wood!” And then she laugh’d perversely
Till chilling anguish through my spirit ran,
And doubt upon me seized:—are those the modest,
The flowery-modest lips of my Maria?
But presently she rose, took quickly up
From off the chair her cashmere shawl, and threw it
Around her neck, my arm took hold of then,
Drew me away, and through the open housedoor,
And led me on through thicket, field, and meadow.

The sun’s red glowing disk already downward
Was hast’ning, and its purple rays were beaming
Over the trees and flowers, and o’er the river
That flow’d majestically in the distance.
“See’st thou the large and golden eye that’s floating
“In the blue water?” cried Maria quickly.
“Hush, thou poor creature!” said I, as I spied
In the dim twilight a strange wondrous motion.
Figures of mist arose from out the plain,
And with white tender arms embraced each other;
The violets eyed each other tenderly,
The lily cups with yearning bent together;
A loving glow in every rose was gleaming,
The pinks would fain in their own breath be kindled,
In blissful odours revell’d every flower,
And every one wept silent tears of rapture,
And all exulting shouted: Love! Love! Love!
The butterflies were fluttering, and the shining
Gold beetles humm’d their gentle fairy songs,
The winds of evening whisper’d, and the oaks
All rustled, and the nightingale sang sweetly;
And amid all the whispering, rustling, singing,
Prated away, with thin cold soundless voice,
The faded woman hanging on my arm:
“I know your nightly longing for the castle;
“Every long shadow is a simpleton,
“That nods and signs precisely as one wishes;
“The blue coat is an angel; but the red coat
“With his drawn sword, is very hostile to you.”
And many other things in this strange fashion
Continued she to say, till, tired at length,
She sat down with me on the mossy bank
That stands beneath the ancient noble oak-tree.
Together there we sat, both sad and silent,
And gazed upon each other, growing sadder.
The oak, as with a dying sigh, was murmuring;
Deep-grieving, sang the nightingale down on us.
But through the leaves a ruddy light was piercing,
And flicker’d round Maria’s pallid face,
And lured a glow from out her rigid eyes,
Until with her old darling voice thus spoke she:
“How knewest thou that I am so unhappy?
“I read it lately in thy strange wild numbers.”

An ice-cold feeling pierced my breast, I shudder’d
At my own mad delirium, which the future
Saw through, my brain grew giddy with alarm,
And through sheer terror I awoke from sleep.

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THE GODS’ TWILIGHT.

RATCLIFF.[8]

DONNA CLARA.