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Title: To Angelique
Author: Heinrich Heine [
More Titles by Heine]
I.
Now that heaven smiles in favor,
Like a mute shall I still languish,--
I, who when unhappy, ever
Sang so much about mine anguish?
Till a thousand striplings haunted
By despair, my notes re-fluted,
And unto the woe I chanted,
Greater evils still imputed.
Oh ye nightingales' sweet choir,
That my bosom holds in capture,
Lift your joyous voices higher,
Let the whole world hear your rapture!
II.
Though thou wert fain to pass me quickly,
Yet backward didst thou look by chance;
Thy wistful lips were frankly parted,
Impetuous scorn was in thy glance.
Would that I ne'er had sought to hold thee,
To touch thy fleeing gown's white train!
The dear mark of thy tiny footprints
Would that I ne'er had found again!
For now thy rare wild charm has vanished,
Like others thou art tame to see,
Intolerably kind and gentle--
Alas! thou art in love with me.
III.
Ne'er can I believe, young beauty,
Thy disdainful lips alone:
For such big black eyes as thine are
Virtue never yet did own.
And those brown-streaked lies down-glancing
Say "I love thee!" clearly scanned,
Let thy little white heart kiss me--
White heart, dost thou understand?
IV.
From the slightest of emotions,
What a sudden transformation,
To the most unbounded passion,
And the tenderest relation!
Every day it waxes deeper,
My affection for my lady.
I am almost half-persuaded
That I am in love already.
Beautiful her soul: though truly
That's a question of opinion.
I am surer of the beauty
Of the bodily dominion.
Oh that waist! And oh that forehead!
Oh that nose! The sweet enclosure
Of the lovely lips in smiling!
And the bearing's proud composure!
V.
Ah, how fair thou art when frankly
Thou reveal'st thy soul's dimensions,
And thy speech is overflowing
With the noblest of intentions.
When thou tell'st me how thy feelings
Always have been truest, highest,
To the pride within thy bosom
Thou no sacrifice denyest.
Not for millions, thou averrest,
Man could thy pure honor buy,
Ere thou sell thyself for money
Ah, thou wouldst far liefer die.
I before thee stand and listen;
To the end I listen stoutly,
Like a type of faith in silence,
And I fold my hands devoutly.
VI.
I closed my sweetheart's either eye,
And on her mouth I kissed,
Now asking me the reason why
She never gives me rest.
From set of sun till morning rise,
Each hour does she persist,
'Oh wherefore did you close mine eyes,
When on my mouth you kissed?"
I never yet have told her why,
Myself I scarcely wist.
I closed my sweetheart's either eye,
And on her mouth I kissed.
VII.
When I, enraptured by precious kisses,
Rest in thine arms for briefest season,
Of Germany thou must not ask me,
I cannot bear it--there is a reason!
Leave Germany in peace, I do beseech thee,
Vex not with endless questions my poor spirit
Concerning home, friends, social, kind relations,
There is a reason why I cannot bear it.
The oak-tree there is green, the German women
Have soft blue eyes--tender they are and fair.
They whisper sighs of hope and truth and passion.
I have good cause--'tis more than I can bear.
VIII.
Whilst I, after other people's,
Others people's darlings gaze,
And before strange sweethearts' dwellings
Sighing pace through weary days.--
Then perhaps those other people
In another quarter pine,
Pacing by my very windows,
Coveting that girl of mine.
That were human! God in heaven,
Watch us still whate'er befall!
God in heaven, joy and blessing,
Joy and blessing send us all!
IX.
Dismiss me not, e'en if my thirst
Quenched with that sweet draught be!
Bear with me for a season yet,
That shall suffice for me.
Canst thou no longer be my love,
Then be to me a friend;
For friendship only just begins
When love is at an end.
X.
This mad carnival of loving,
This our heart's intoxication
Ends at last, and we twain, sobered,
Yawningly look each on each.
All the luscious cup is drained
That was filled with sensuous juices,
Foaming to the brim, enticing,
All the luscious cup is drained.
And the violins are silent,
That so sweetly played for dancing,
For the giddy dance of passion--
Yes, the violins are silent.
And the lanterns are extinguished,
That with gorgeous light illumined
All the motley troop of maskers--
Yes, the lanterns are extinguished.
And to-morrow comes Ash-Wednesday,
I will draw upon thy forehead
Then an ashen cross, and murmur,
Woman, thou art dust--remember!
[The end]
Heinrich Heine's poem: To Angelique
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