This is the expression of the healthiest, fullest, mutual sympathy, of love's gratitude, of perfect understanding. For such feeling Heine did not find expression until, with the shadow of death upon him, he loved _la Mouche_, the guardian angel of his death-bed. Until then it is never the healthy, tranquillising, happy element in love that he concerns himself with. It is in another domain that he is master. The modern poet, he reproduces passionate desire with a Correggio-like blending of colours and tones that is more effective than Goethe's antique limpidity. With Goethe desire is Greek or Italian. Think, for instance, of the poem of the orange: "Ich trete zu dem Baume Und sage: Pomeranze! Du reife Pomeranze; Du süsse Pomeranze! Ich schüttle, fühl', ich schüttle, O fall in meinen Schoos!"[19] [19] I take my stand beneath the tree, And cry: O orange! O orange ripe! O orange sweet! Feel, feel how I shake thy tree! O fall into my lap Then compare the feeling, the glow, the fragrance, the exuberance of such a poem of desire as Heine's wonderful: _Die Lotosblume ängstigt sich vor der Sonne Pracht_ ("The lotus-flower is fearful of the sun's resplendent beam"). It is very characteristic of the two poets that (as has already been noted), whenever the representation of love-longing glides into a delineation of foreign lands, Goethe prefers to paint Italy, Heine Hindostan. In Mignon's song of longing, without a superlative or a diminutive, with a power like that of a God, Goethe summons before our eyes the picture of the classic land where the citrons bloom. There is a power in it all, a force in each distinguishing trait, that Heine does not attain to. But compare this with the bewitching sweetness of Heine's _Auf Flügeln des Gesanges_ ("Oh, I would bear thee, my love, my bride, afar on the wings of song"), the dreamy longing, the charm and the mystery of the perspective that opens out to us: "Es hüpfen herbei und lauschen Die frommen, klugen Gazelln, Und in der Ferne rauschen Des heiligen Stromes Welln."[20] [20] Gazelles come bounding from the brake, And pause, and look shyly round; And the waves of the sacred river make A far-off slumb'rous sound. (Sir THEODORE MARTIN) This is an immortal stanza. Goethe, even when he gives the reins to longing, is always, like his own goldsmith of Ephesus, the great, wise heathen, who makes images of the gods; in Heine's visionary brain there was that particle of divine frenzy without which it had been impossible for the Düsseldorf merchant's son to understand and reproduce the fatalistic, self-effacing dreaminess of ancient India. Heine's peculiarities of style stand out even more sharply against the background of Goethe's, when we compare the way in which the two give expression to what is not exactly desire, but the pure longing of love.