With myrtles and roses, tender and fair

With myrtles and roses, tender and fair,
With funeral cypress, and gilding rare,
As though 'twere a coffin my book I'll adorn
And in it my songs to their rest shall be borne.

Could I coffin my love too, deep in the tomb!
On love's grave the fair flower of peace may bloom;
On such grave it blooms, there 'tis culled — but for me
It never will bloom till in earth I be.

And here are the songs which were reckless erst
As the lava streams that from Etna burst;
They broke from my spirit's depths profound
And scattered their lightning flashes around.

But now they are still as the dead are still,
And they look as wan as the mists, and as chill;
Yet the spirit of love floating o'er them once more
Will again to my song the old passion restore.

In my deepest heart I know it is true
That the spirit of love will shed o'er them its dew,
When once this book shall be placed in thy hand,
Thou sweet true love in a distant land.

From the spell that enthrals it then song shall be free,
And the faint dim letters shall gaze upon thee,
Beseeching shall gaze in thy beautiful eyes,
And whisper of sorrow and lovers' sighs.
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Author of original: 
Heinrich Heine
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