The poems of Heine; Complete: Translated into the original metres; with a sketch of his lifeHeine, Heinrich
General
The poems of Heine; Complete: Translated into the original metres; with a sketch of his life
Heine, Heinrich
German poetry -- Translations into English; Heine, Heinrich, 1797-1856 -- Translations into English
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!
69.
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.
70.
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.
THE GODS’ TWILIGHT.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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