PARAPHRASES ON HEINE.
IX.
I.
ITH roses and cypress and spangled gold,Would I could garnish, and loving enfoldThis book like an altar of death to enshrine,As in it I bury these lays of mine.II.
0! would I could coffin this love, that so!The flower of rest on its grave might grow,Where it may blossom for many a one,Though only for me when this life is done.
III.
Here then are the lyrics, which once so wild,Like those lava streams which from Etna boiled,And came rushing forth from my spirit's deep,As the flashing lightning in its sweep.
