Do you, truly, so detest me?

Through all the world will I complain Of _how_ you have addressed me.

O ye lips that are ungrateful, Hath it never once distressed you, That you can say such _awful_ things Of _any_ one who ever kissed you?

II

So thou hast forgotten fully That I so long held thy heart wholly, Thy little heart, so sweet and false and small That there's no thing more sweet or false at all.

Love and lay thou hast forgotten fully, And my heart worked at them unduly.

I know not if the love or if the lay were better stuff, But I know now, they both were good enough.

III

Tell me where thy lovely love is, Whom thou once did sing so sweetly, When the fairy flames enshrouded Thee, and held thy heart completely.

All the flames are dead and sped now And my heart is cold and sere; Behold this book, the urn of ashes, 'Tis my true love's sepulchre.

IV

I dreamt that I was G.o.d Himself Whom heavenly joy immerses, And all the angels sat about And praised my verses.

V

The mutilated choir boys When I begin to sing Complain about the awful noise And call my voice too thick a thing.

When light their voices lift them up, Bright notes against the ear, Through trills and runs like crystal, Ring delicate and clear.

They sing of Love that's grown desirous, Of Love, and joy that is Love's inmost part, And all the ladies swim through tears Toward such a work of art.

VI

This delightful young man Should not lack for honourers, He propitiates me with oysters, With Rhine wine and liqueurs.

How his coat and pants adorn him!

Yet his ties are more adorning, In these he daily comes to ask me: Are you feeling well this morning?

He speaks of my extended fame, My wit, charm, definitions, And is diligent to serve me, Is detailed in his provisions.

In evening company he sets his face In most spiritu_el_ positions, And declaims before the ladies My _G.o.d-like_ compositions.

O what comfort is it for me To find him such, when the days bring No comfort, at my time of life when All good things go vanishing.

_TRANSLATOR TO TRANSLATED_

_O Harry Heine, curses be,_ _I live too late to sup with thee!_ _Who can demolish at such polished ease_ _Philistia's pomp and Art's pomposities!_

VII

SONG FROM DIE HARZREISE

I am the Princess Ilza In Ilsenstein I fare, Come with me to that castle And we'll be happy there.

Thy head will I cover over With my waves' clarity Till thou forget thy sorrow, O wounded sorrowfully.

Thou wilt in my white arms there, Nay, on my breast thou must Forget and rest and dream there For thine old legend-l.u.s.t.

My lips and my heart are thine there As they were his and mine.

His? Why the good King Harry's, And he is dead lang syne.

Dead men stay alway dead men, Life is the live man's part, And I am fair and golden With joy breathless at heart.

If my heart stay below there, My crystal halls ring clear To the dance of lords and ladies In all their splendid gear.

The silken trains go rustling, The spur-clinks sound between, The dark dwarfs blow and bow there Small horn and violin.

Yet shall my white arms hold thee, That bound King Harry about.

Ah, I covered his ears with them When the trumpet rang out.

UND DRANG

Nay, dwells he in cloudy rumour alone?

BINYON.

I

I am worn faint, The winds of good and evil Blind me with dust And burn me with the cold, There is no comfort being over-man; Yet are we come more near The great oblivions and the labouring night, Inchoate truth and the sepulchral forces.

II

Confusion, clamour, 'mid the many voices Is there a meaning, a significance?

That life apart from all life gives and takes, This life, apart from all life's bitter and life's sweet, Is good.

Ye see me and ye say: exceeding sweet Life's gifts, his youth, his art, And his too soon acclaim.

I also knew exceeding bitterness, Saw good things altered and old friends fare forth, And what I loved in me hath died too soon, Yea I have seen the "gray above the green"; Gay have I lived in life; Though life hath lain Strange hands upon me and hath torn my sides, Yet I believe.