Translations from Heine.
171
"If I thus early go to the grave,
Well, in the grave is rest!"
The answering voice confessed:
"In the grave is rest!"
Slowly adown the rider's cheek
A tear of sad thought fell:
"If but in the grave there is rest for me,
For me in the grave 'tis well!"
Whereto the echoing knell:
"In the grave 'tis well!"
For many thousand ages
The steadfast stars above
Have gazed upon each other
With ever-mournful love.
They speak a certain language,
So beautiful, so grand,
Which none of the philologians
Could ever understand.
But I have learned it, learned it
For ever, by the grace
Of studying one grammar,
My heart's own darling's face.
