Heinrich Heine

When I’m made happy by lovely kisses,
Lying so sweetly in your arms’ prisons,
You mustn’t speak of Germany to me –I just can’t stand it – I have my reasons
Oh, leave me in peace about Germany

Burst out in wailing riot,
Thou darkling martyr-lay,
That in my soul, flame-quiet,
I've borne this many a day

Well, this is awful weather;
Storming with rain and snow
I sit at the window,
Into the darkness below

This mad carnival of loving,
This wild orgy of the flesh,
Ends at last and we two, sobered,
Look at one another, yawning

I Love this white and slender body,
These limbs that answer Love's caresses,
Passionate eyes, and forehead covered With heavy waves of thick, black tresses
You are the very one I've searched for In many lands, in every weather

They loved each other, but
Would admit to the other they could:
As enemies, they saw each other,
And almost died of their love

My child, we were just children,
Two happy kids, that’s all:
We crept into the henhouse,
And hid there in the straw

Wandl' ich in dem Wald des
Through the wood when I am
In the dusky eventide,
Goes a dainty form in

There lies the heat of
On your cheek’s lovely art:
There lies the cold of
Within your little heart

Where shall I, of wandering weary,
Find my resting-place at last
Under drooping southern palm-trees
Under limes the Rhine sweeps past

There was a king, now ageing,
With heart of lead, and head so grey
He took a wife, the old king,
A young wife too, men say

A lonely fir-tree
On a height where north winds blow ;
It sleepeth, with whitened garment,
Enshrouded by ice and snow

A single fir-tree, lonely,
On a northern mountain height,
Sleeps in a white blanket,
Draped in snow and ice

Our death is in the cool of night,
Our life is in the pool of day
The darkness glows,
I’m drowning,

There’s a mirror likeness between the
Bright, youthfully-shaped figures,
One’s paler than the other and more austere,
I might even say more perfect, more distinguished,

O dearest, canst thou tell me why The rose should be so pale
And why the azure violet Should wither in the vale
And why the lark should in the cloud So sorrowfully sing
And why from loveliest balsam-buds A scent of death should spring