There’s a mirror likeness between the two <br />Bright, youthfully-shaped figures, though <br />One’s paler than the other and more austere, <br />I might even say more perfect, more distinguished, <br />Than the one who’d take me confidingly in his arms – <br />How soft then, loving, his smile, how blessed his glance! <br />Then it might well have been, that his wreath <br />Of white poppies touched my forehead, at times, <br />Drove the pain from my mind with its strange scent. <br />But all that’s transient. I can only, now, be well, <br />When the other one, so serious and pale, <br />The older brother, lowers his dark torch. – <br />Sleep is good: and Death is better, yet <br />Surely never to have been born is best.<br /><br />Heinrich Heine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morphine-6/
