With A Copy Of 'The Rabbi Of Bachwach'

Burst out in wailing riot,
Thou darkling martyr-lay,
That in my soul, flame-quiet,
I've borne this many a day!

It thrills through every hearing
And so the heart doth gain.
I've conjured up, unfearing,
The thousand-year-old pain.

Great, little, weep and even
Cold hearts do tearful grow :
The small stars weep in heaven,
The maids and flowers below.

The tears, still southward fleeting,
To the still conclave go
And all, each other meeting,
Into the Jordan flow.

by Heinrich Heine

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