My golden-haired beauty, <br />I’m always sure of seeing, <br />In the Tuileries Gardens, <br />Under the chestnut trees. <br />Every day she’s out walking <br />With two ugly old ladies – <br />Are they aunts? Or dragons, <br />Disguised in women’s clothing? <br />Could no one give me a clue then, <br />Of who she was? I asked my friends, <br />All of them, but all in vain, <br />I was nearly ill with passion. <br />Daunted by the moustaches <br />Of her elderly companions, <br />And daunted by my own heart <br />Even more completely, <br />I never dared to whisper <br />A single sighed word in passing, <br />Scarce dared to show my ardour, <br />By the passion in my glances. <br />Only today I’ve learnt at last <br />Her name. She’s called Laura, <br />Like the beautiful Provençale <br />A great poet fell in love with. <br />She’s called Laura! Now I’ve got as <br />Far as, long ago, Petrarch did, <br />Who praised the lovely woman <br />In canzones and sonettos. <br />She’s called Laura! Just like Petrarch, <br />I can try platonic toying <br />With her name’s melodic music – <br />He himself achieved no more.<br /><br />Heinrich Heine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/die-unbekannte/
