The poems of Heine; Complete. Heinrich Heine

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       Though thou may’st sparkle ’neath thy diamonds bright,

       No ray can pierce thy heart’s unceasing night.

      I’ve known it long. In vision saw I thee,

       How night thy heart doth fill unceasingly,

       And how the serpent at thy heart doth gnaw—

       How wretched, love, thou art, too well I saw.

      20.

      Thou’rt wretched, yes!—but no complaint I’ll make;—

       My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

       Till death our poor afflicted hearts doth break,

       My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

      I see the scorn that round thy mouth doth play,

       I see thine eyes that glance so haughtily,

       I see the pride that doth thy bosom sway—

       Yet thou art wretched, wretched e’en as I.

      Grief lurks around thy mouth, unseen indeed,

       With hidden tears thine eyes can scarcely see,

       And secret wounds on thy proud bosom feed—

       My love, we both, alas, must wretched be!

      21.

      The flutes and fiddles are sounding,

       The trumpets ringing clear;

       In the wedding dance is bounding

       My heart’s own mistress dear.

      The shawms and kettle-drums vying

       In noisy chorus I hear;

       But meanwhile good angels are sighing

       And weeping many a tear.

      22.

      Thou scarcely could’st have forgotten it faster,

       That I of thine heart so long was the master;

       Thine heart so false, so small, and so sweet,

       A sweeter and falser I never shall meet.

      Thou now hast forgotten the love and disaster

       That made my heart throb all the faster;

       I know not if love was the greatest, or woe;

       That both were great, full well I know.

      23.

      O if the tiny flowers

       But knew of my wounded heart,

       Their tears, like mine, in showers

       Would fall, to cure the smart.

      If knew the nightingales only

       That I’m so mournful and sad,

       They would cheer my misery lonely

       With their notes so tuneful and glad.

      If the golden stars high o’er us

       But knew of my bitter woe,

       They would speak words of comfort in chorus,

       Descending hither below.

      Not one of these can allay it,

       One only knows of my smart;

       ’Tis she, I grieve to say it,

       Who thus hath wounded my heart.

      24.

      O why have the roses lost their hue,

       Sweet love, O tell me why?

       Why mutely thus do the violets blue

       In the verdant meadows sigh?

      O why doth the lark up high in the air

       With a voice so mournful sing?

       O why doth each fragrant floweret fair

       Exhale like a poisonous thing?

      O wherefore looks the sun to-day

       On the fields, so full of gloom?

       O why doth the earth appear so grey,

       And dreary as a tomb?

      Why feel I myself so mournful and weak—

       Sweet love, I put it to thee?

       My own sweet darling, sweet love, O speak—

       O wherefore leavest thou me?

      25.

      For thine ear many tales they invented,

       And loud complaints preferred;

       But how my soul was tormented,

       Of this they said not a word.

      They prated of mischief and evil,

       And mournfully shook their head;

       They liken’d poor me to the devil,

       And thou didst believe what they said.

      But, O; the worst and the saddest,

       Of this they nothing knew;

       The saddest and the maddest

       In my heart was hidden from view.

      26.

      The linden blossom’d, the nightingale sung,

       The sun was laughing with radiance bright;

       Thou kissed’st me then, while thine arm round me clung,

       To thy heaving bosom thou pressed’st me tight.

      The raven was screeching, the leaves fast fell,

       The sun gazed cheerlessly down on the sight;

       We coldly said to each other “Farewell!”

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