Poem Hunter
Heinrich Heine (13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856 / Dusseldorf)


Not a Mass will be sung then,
Not a Kaddish will be said,
Nothing sung, and nothing spoken,
On the day when I am dead.
But perhaps another day
When the weather’s mild, serene,
My Matilde will go walking,
In Montmartre, with Pauline.
With a wreath of immortelles,
She’ll come to dress my grave,
And she’ll sigh: ‘Oh, poor man.’
That moist sadness in her gaze.
A shame I’m so high up,
And I’ve no chair for my sweet,
Not a stool to offer her,
Ah, she trips with weary feet!
Don’t, my sweet, plump child,
Make your way back home on foot,
Behind the iron railings,
The cabs are waiting, look.

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Comments (1)

seems after the mourning a sad girl with weary feet is best advised to take a romping way in a cab ride; Heine seems obcessed with death in several poems, is this a German melancholy mind?