It has died in me, as it must, <br />Every idle, earthly lust, <br />My hatred too of wickedness, <br />Utterly now, even the sense, <br />Of my own, of other men’s distress – <br />All that’s living in me is Death! <br />The curtain falls, the play is done, <br />And my dear German public’s gone, <br />Wandering home, and yawning so, <br />Those good folk aren’t stupid though: <br />They’ll dine happily enough tonight, <br />Drink, and sing, and laugh – He’s right, <br />The noble hero in Homer’s book, <br />Who said once that the meanest schmuck, <br />The lowest little Philistine there, <br />In Stuttgart (am Neckar), is happier <br />Than I, son of Peleus, the hero, furled, <br />The shadow prince in the Underworld.<br /><br />Heinrich Heine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/der-scheidende/
