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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The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
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