Not a Mass will be sung then, <br />Not a Kaddish will be said, <br />Nothing sung, and nothing spoken, <br />On the day when I am dead. <br />But perhaps another day <br />When the weather’s mild, serene, <br />My Matilde will go walking, <br />In Montmartre, with Pauline. <br />With a wreath of immortelles, <br />She’ll come to dress my grave, <br />And she’ll sigh: ‘Oh, poor man.’ <br />That moist sadness in her gaze. <br />A shame I’m so high up, <br />And I’ve no chair for my sweet, <br />Not a stool to offer her, <br />Ah, she trips with weary feet! <br />Don’t, my sweet, plump child, <br />Make your way back home on foot, <br />Behind the iron railings, <br />The cabs are waiting, look.<br /><br />Heinrich Heine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ged-chtnisfeier/
