Death - Poem by Heinrich Heine
Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.
Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You