04.06.2007, 09:18
Heine at the Louvre
Even as a priest, worn with harsh nights and days,
Falls rapt and lowly at the misty shrine
Of Him who heareth, yet may grant no sign
For guerdon of the fierce heart’s fevered praise:
So didst thou, Heine, kneel at wistful gaze
Before thy Venus of the pitying eyne
To whom thy matin song rang out divine,
Whose glory lit thy darkling vesper-ways.
Straightway thy palsied body cast thee prone:
The kind tears broke: the tense soul lapsed in prayer
Faltering and faint, low as thy life’s low sands:
Then sobbed the Goddess, yearning to her own: -
“I burn to heal thee, hold thee young and fair –
But see, my Heinrich, ah! I have no hands!”
Even as a priest, worn with harsh nights and days,
Falls rapt and lowly at the misty shrine
Of Him who heareth, yet may grant no sign
For guerdon of the fierce heart’s fevered praise:
So didst thou, Heine, kneel at wistful gaze
Before thy Venus of the pitying eyne
To whom thy matin song rang out divine,
Whose glory lit thy darkling vesper-ways.
Straightway thy palsied body cast thee prone:
The kind tears broke: the tense soul lapsed in prayer
Faltering and faint, low as thy life’s low sands:
Then sobbed the Goddess, yearning to her own: -
“I burn to heal thee, hold thee young and fair –
But see, my Heinrich, ah! I have no hands!”