Among the emotional poems which refer to this episode in his psychic history, Heine introduced (exactly as he did in the _Intermezzo_) verses relating to less serious love affairs, to college adventures, and even to quite low, venal, erotic pleasures. He omitted from the _Buch der Lieder_ some of the most objectionable of these, which originally formed part of the _Heimkehr_, amongst others the amusing, though impudent: "Blamier mich nicht, mein schönes Kind, Und grüss mich nicht unter den Linden; Wenn wir nachher zu Hause sind, Wird sich schon Alles finden."[13] [13] Don't compromise me, my pretty one, Don't bow to me in "Rotten Row"; At home together afterwards I'll make up for it, that you know. --and even such a merry wanton rhyme as:-- "Himmlisch war's, wenn ich bezwang Meine sündige Begier; Aber wenn's mir nicht gelang, Hatt' ich doch ein gross Plaisir."[14] [14] 'Twas heavenly joy to overcome Each sinful wish and thought; But when I couldn't, truth to tell, That, too, much pleasure brought. What we are most struck by in the poems of this division is the author's double gift of song and painting. Along with the capacity for producing those outbursts of mixed passion, which sound like the unaffected heart-cry of modern humanity, he here reveals a special talent for painting, for producing figures by means of light and shade and colour, without outline. There is the scene in the lonely parsonage, with the disunited, despairing family (_Der bleiche, herbstliche Halbmond_). The son is determined to be a highway robber, the daughter has made up her mind to sell herself to the Count. With all its vividness, however, this scene is not one of the best. There is too much old-fashioned Romanticism in the idea of the dead father in his black robes standing outside, knocking at the window. The next poem, _Das ist ein schlechtes Wetter_, is a most masterly production. We see the little old woman hobbling across the street with her lantern late on the dark and stormy evening, to make purchases for her tall, beautiful daughter, who is lying in the arm-chair at home, blinking sleepily at the light, her golden locks falling over her sweet face--it is like an old Dutch painting. Still finer is the group of eight poems which was the result of his stay at Cuxhaven. _Wir sassen am Fischerhause_ is a little marvel of artistic ability--that talk with the girls, sitting outside the fisherman's hut, in which far-off India and Ultima Thule are described in a few words: "By the Ganges all is brightness and fragrance, giant trees blossom, and beautiful, tranquil men and women kneel to the lotus flowers. In Lapland the people are dirty and small; their heads are flat and their mouths are wide; they cower round the fire, roast fish, and screech and scream."