Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/117



Heinrich Heine ætat 56, loquitur:

that be you, la mouche? Wait till I lift This palsied eye-lid and make sure. . . Ah, true. Come in, dear fly, and pardon my delay In thus existing; I can promise you Next time you come you'll find no dying poet— Without sufficient spleen to see me through, The joke becomes too tedious a jest. I am afraid my mind is dull to-day; I have that—something—heavier on my chest And then, you see, I've been exchanging thoughts With Doctor Franz. He talked of Kant and Hegel As though he'd nursed them both through whooping cough And, as he left, he let his finger shake Too playfully, as though to say, "Now off With that long face—you've years and years to live." I think he thinks so. But, for Heaven's sake, Don't credit it—and never tell Mathilde. Poor dear, she has enough to bear already. ..

This was a month! During my lonely weeks One person actually climbed the stairs To seek a cripple. It was Berlioz— But Berlioz always was original. 103