Heinrich Heine He died in Paris on a day like today in 1856 and was one of the most prominent German poets and essayists of his time. There are those who consider it, along with Goethe, the highest representative of the German lyric. Today, in his memory, there is a selection of 6 of his poems.
Heinrich Heine
Born in Düsseldorf in 1797. He published his first book in 1822, entitled poems. When he finished his law degree, he decided to dedicate himself fully to writing. In his work is the great influences that the philosopher Wilhem F. Hegel and he was also friends with Karl Marx. From that most philosophical time is one of his most famous works, Book of songs.
Later, in 1827, he made a trip to England and Italy and ended up settling in Paris in 1831. It was there that he wrote his satirical poems, Germany, a winter's tale y Ballads in 1851. Posthumously, as early as 1869, his Latest poems. This is my selection of 6 of them.
6 poems
The wounded knight
The wounded knight
Many stories I have heard;
none, like this one, cruel:
a well-born gentleman
he is in love badly wounded,
and his lady is unfaithful to him.
For unfaithful and traitorous,
which fool adores
should belittle;
what infamous weakness
your own pain look.
I would like to move a complaint
shouting at the joust like this:
«I love a beautiful maiden;
who finds fault in it,
come out and close against me ».
Maybe everyone would shut up;
but not his discomfort:
and at last their weapons would have
what to hurt, if they wanted to fight,
his miserable heart.
The Diana
Beat the drum without fear,
And hugs the bartender:
Here is the whole science;
This one, from the best book,
It is the true meaning.
That the noise of your drum
Wake up to the sleeping world:
He plays with ardor diana.
Forward, always upright!
It is sovereign science.
Hegel's is the deep
More finished sense;
I learned it, and it is proven:
I am a boy of the world,
And a tapped drum.
They loved each other with frenzied passion
They loved each other with frenzied passion;
she was a whore; he a thief;
when he concocted some misdeed,
she would lie down on the bed and laugh.
I spent the day on strike and without eagerness,
and the night in the arms of the gallant;
when the police took him away,
from the balcony she looked at him, and laughed.
He, from jail, sent him to say
that I could not live without his love;
to one side and the other she moved
prying head, and laughing.
At six they hung him up; when sounding
seven o'clock, they took him to bury;
when it struck eight on the same day,
she got drunk, and laughed.
Dreams
I once dreamed of burning loves
with beautiful loops, myrtles and reseda
sweet lips and bitter words
sad melodies of sad songs.
Scattered and inert long ago is my dream
dispersed is already the dearest in dream
the only thing left in me is what someday
with indomitable ardor I poured in tender rhymes.
Are you left, orphan song?
Disappear anyway and look for the dream that I have lost a lot
and if you find it say hello for me.
I send a volatile blow to the volatile shadow.
Put on my chest, girl, put your hand
Put on my chest, girl, put your hand.
Don't you feel gloomy restlessness inside?
Is that in my soul I carry a craftsman
that goes nailing my coffin.
Work tirelessly all day;
and at night he works without ceasing;
that you finish soon, teacher, my soul longs,
and let me calmly rest.
Ah, Mrs. Fortuna! Uselessly
you show yourself disdainful. Your favors
I will conquer with brave spirit
like all brave fighters.
In the fought fight you will fall tame;
I have already forged the yoke to which you will be yoked;
but when you see my plants disarmed,
I feel a mortal wound in my heart.
The red blood gushes in a long river
and the sweet breath of vital breath ...
and when the triumph that I longed for is already mine,
give up my strength and die I feel.
After Goethe, for me he is the best German poet alongside Holderlin. at the same height.