HEINE.
Reading edition
BUCH DER LIEDER.
Pain brings us more than pleasure; Tears comfort more than wine; Grief's hands are full of treasure, And sorrow is divine. The nightingale that's making Night happy with his strain, His little heart is breaking: He sings to still its pain. Better than laughing folly, Gay songs and wassail ale, Thy tuneful melancholy, O poet nightingale! I have no ear for gladness When thou with song dost make Such rapture out of sadness— Such transport of heart-break. Charles Quiet.