It has died in me, as it must,
Every idle, earthly lust,
My hatred too of wickedness,
Utterly now, even the sense,
Of my own, of other men’s distress –
All that’s living in me is Death!
The curtain falls, the play is done,
And my dear German public’s gone,
Wandering home, and yawning so,
Those good folk aren’t stupid though:
They’ll dine happily enough tonight,
Drink, and sing, and laugh – He’s right,
The noble hero in Homer’s book,
Who said once that the meanest schmuck,
The lowest little Philistine there,
In Stuttgart (am Neckar), is happier
Than I, son of Peleus, the hero, furled,
The shadow prince in the Underworld.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
The Sun Will Sunrise Rise Till Noon Then Sunset Set if life is but a stage, very few I feel lives, will be a rage who the audience, who the crowd, who will call aloud life for most, is a common lot, toil for a living hot or cold childhood play, stacked decades work days, then off the stage; in old age exceeded, dies every idle pleasure, earthly lust through goodness, evil toil time life boils away, as it must till pain disease, perhaps cancer cells, a death nail tale tells the only thing thriving, living in spent husk, is death spells; life reads like lines, for a play written, for a staged audience the pleasue of life, has youth long parted, in passion earlier acts now the stage, is near empty rarely littered with aged, old hacks; so lets eat and drink, and sing and laugh merry, while we are young which is a good way, to deflect sorrow boredom, or unhappiness for all will have fickle, unknown indifferent days, under setting sun; Copyright © Terence George Craddock Inspired by the poem 'Der Scheidende' by the poet Heinrich Heine. Dedicated to the poet Henrich Heine.