Heine

GOD said: “I will make a poet,”

And a soul was sent below

With the singer’s wings of rapture,

With the sufferer’s weight of woe.

God laid on the eyes the poet’s

Awful gift of second sight,

On the restless, questioning spirit,

All the blackness of the night.

On the body, pangs of torture,

Hell’s own pains and love’s sharp sting;

Doubt you woe must dow’r the poet?

Hush, draw close and hear him sing!