Heinrich Heine (1799–1856)

THE LOTOS flower trembles

In fear of the sunshine bright,

And with her head cast downward

Waits dreaming for the night.

She is waked by the moon, her lover,

By moonbeams’ light embrace,

And she unveils in kindness

Her gentle flower face.

She blooms and glows and shining

All silent looks above:

With tears and fragrance she trembles

In love and the woe of love.