Sonnet 34

by Heinrich Heine

When in the tomb, my mistress fair,
The chilly tomb, thou must hide thee.
I’ll soon descend to rejoin thee there,
And fondly nestle beside thee.

I wildly will press thee, embrace thee, and kiss
My pale, cold, fearful-to-see love!
I’ll tremble, weep, shout with rapturous bliss,
And soon be a corpse like thee, love.

The dead will arise, when midnight is nigh,
And dance in airy troops lightly;
But we in the tomb will quietly lie,
Thine arms embracing me tightly.

The dead will arise, when the loud trump of doom
To bliss or to torment is calling;
But regardless of all, we’ll remain in the tomb,
Still clasp’d in embraces enthralling.

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Sonnet 69

by Heinrich Heine

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.

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Sonnet 41

by Heinrich Heine

The blockheads, their holidays keeping,
Are walking through forest and plain;
They shout, and like kittens are leaping,
And hail sweet Nature again.

They gaze, with glances that glisten,
On each romantic thing;
With ears like asses they listen
To hear the sparrows sing.

My chamber window to darken,
With black cloth I hang it by day;
To the signal my spirits straight hearken,
Day-visits they hasten to pay.

My olden love also draws nigh me,
From the realms of the dead she appears;
She, weeping, sits gently close by me,
And softens my bosom to tears.

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Sonnet 23 [part of “A return home” from 1823]

by Heinrich Heine

How canst thou sleep in quiet,
And know that I’m still alive?
I burst the yoke that’s upon me,
When my olden wrath doth revive.

Dost know the ancient ballad:
How of yore a dead stripling brave
At midnight came to his loved one,
And carried her down to his grave.

Believe me, thou wondrous beauty,
Thou wondrously lovely maid,
I’m alive still, and feel far stronger
Than the whole of the dead’s brigade!

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