Heinrich Heine (1799–1856)

ON wings of song—ah, lightly,

Heart’s dearest, I bear thee away:

A nook is beckoning brightly

Where Ganges’ waters play.

A blooming red garden is lying

In moonlight calm and clear,

The lotos flowers are sighing

For thee, their sister dear.

The violets banter and slyly

They peep at the star-rays pale,

The roses are whispering shyly

Some fragrant fairy-tale.

The gentle gazelles come leaping,

And hearken what we say;

The sacred river is sweeping

And murmuring far away.

Beloved, let us be sinking

Under the shady palm,

The blissful quiet drinking

And dreaming dreams of balm.