Heinrich Heine

I saw a crowd of flowers in bloom,
On my way: too lazy of
To stir myself and pick them too,
I rode on by, on my proud horse

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

My golden-haired beauty,
I’m always sure of seeing,
In the Tuileries Gardens,
Under the chestnut trees

They loved each other with love so deep,
She was a tramp and he was a thief
When he was plying his naughty craft,
She lay on the bed and laughed

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

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

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

Every day so lovely, shining,
Up and down, the Sultan’s
Walked at evening by the water,
Where the white fountain splashes

E'en as a lovely flower,
So fair, so pure thou art;
I gaze on thee, and sadness Comes stealing o'er my heart
My hands I fain had folded Upon thy soft brown hair,

You will print such books as these
Then you're lost, my friend, that's certain
If you wish for gold and honor,
Write more humbly—bend your knees

It has died in me, as it must,
Every idle, earthly lust,
My hatred too of wickedness,
Utterly now, even the sense,

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