Such barren knowledge a while,
God gave the poet his song.
Therefore a secret unrest
Tortured thee, brilliant and bold;
Therefore triumph itself
Tasted amiss to thy soul.
Therefore, with blood of thy foes,
Trickled in silence thine own.
Therefore the victor's heart
Broke on the field of his fame.
Ah! as of old, from the pomp
Of Italian Milan, the fair
Flower of marble of white
Southern palaces,—steps
Bordered by statues, and walks
Terraced, and orange bowers
Heavy with fragrance,—the blond
German Kaiser full oft
Longed himself back to the fields,
Rivers, and high-roofed towns
Of his native Germany; so,
So, how often! from hot
Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps
Blazing, and brilliant crowds,
Starred and jewelled, of men
Famous, of women the queens
Of dazzling converse; from fumes
Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain
That mount, that madden,—how oft
Heine's spirit outworn
Longed itself out of the din,
Back to the tranquil, the cool
Far German home of his youth!
