Pours her petulant youth;
Climbing the rock which juts
O'er the valley,—the dizzily perched
Rock,—to its iron cross
Once more thou cling'st; to the cross
Clingest! with smiles, with a sigh!
Goethe too had been there.25
In the long-past winter he came
To the frozen Hartz, with his soul
Passionate, eager; his youth
All in ferment. But he,
Destined to work and to live,
Left it, and thou, alas!
Only to laugh and to die.
But something prompts me: Not thus
Take leave of Heine! not thus
Speak the last word at his grave!
Not in pity, and not
With half censure: with awe
Hail, as it passes from earth
Scattering lightnings, that soul!
The Spirit of the world,
Beholding the absurdity of men,—
Their vaunts, their feats,—let a sardonic smile,
For one short moment, wander o'er his lips.
That smile was Heine! For its earthly hour
The strange guest sparkled; now 'tis passed away.
That was Heine! and we,
Myriads who live, who have lived,
What are we all, but a mood,
