Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, VISIONS: 7, by HEINRICH HEINE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

VISIONS: 7, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou now hast the money, -- why longer delay?
Last Line: "for ever, amen!"" the old mother exclaims."
Subject(s): Dreams; Marriage; Nightmares; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


THOU now hast the money, -- why longer delay?
Thou dark scowling fellow, why lingering stay?
I sit in my chamber, and patiently wait,
And midnight is near, but the bride is still late.

From the churchyard the shuddering breezes arise; --
Ye breezes, O say, has my bride met your eyes?
Pale demons come round me, and hard on me press,
Make curtsies with grinning, and nod their "O yes!"

Quick, tell me the message you're coming about,
Black villain, in liv'ry of fire trick'd out!
My mistress sends word that she soon will be here;
In a car drawn by dragons she'll shortly appear.

Dear grey little man, say, what would'st thou to-day?
Dead master of mine, what's thy business, pray?
He gazes upon me with mute mournful mien,
Shakes his head, turns away, and no longer is seen.

His tail wags the shaggy old dog, and he whines;
All brightly the eye of the black tom-cat shines;
The women are howling with long flowing hair, --
Why sings my old nurse my old cradle-song there?

Old nurse stops at home, to her song to attend,
The eiapopeia is long at an end;
To-day I am keeping my gay wedding feast;
Only watch the arrival of each gallant guest!

Only watch them! Good sirs, how polite is your band!
Ye carry your heads, 'stead of hats, in your hand;
With your clattering bones, and like gallows-birds dress'd,
Why arrive here so late, when the wind is at rest?

The old witch on her broomstick comes galloping on:
Ah, bless me, good mother, I'm really thy son.
The mouth in her pale face beginning to twitch,
"For ever, amen," soon replies the old witch.

Twelve wither'd musicians come creeping along,
The limping blind fiddler is seen in the throng
Jackpudding dress'd out in his motley array,
On the gravedigger's back is grimacing away

With dancing twelve nuns from the convent advance,
The leering old procuress leading the dance;
Twelve merry young priests follow close in their train,
And sing their lewd songs in a church-going strain.

Till you're black in the face, good old clothesman, don't yell,
Your fur-coat will nothing avail you in hell;
'Tis heated for nought all the year with odd things, --
'Stead of wood, with the bones of dead beggars and kings.

The girls with the flowers seem'd hunchback'd and bent,
Tumbling head over heels in the room as they went;
With your faces like owls, and a grasshopper's leg,
That rattling of bones discontinue, I beg.

The squadrons of hell all appear in their shrouds,
And bustle and hustle in fast-swelling crowds;
The waltz of damnation resounds in the ear, --
Hush, hush! my sweet love is at length drawing near.

Now, rabble, be quiet, or get you away!
I scarcely can hear e'en one word that I say;
Hark! Is't not the sound of a chariot at hand?
Quick, open the door! Why thus loitering stand?

Thou art welcome, my darling! how goes it, my sweet?
You're welcome, good parson! stand up, I entreat!
Good parson, with hoof of a horse and with tail,
I'm your dutiful servant, and wish you all hail!

Dear bride, wherefore stand'st thou so pale and so dumb?
The parson to join us together has come;
Full dear, dear as blood, is the fee I must pay,
And yet to possess thee is merely child's play.

Kneel down, my sweet bride, by my side prythee kneel
She kneels and she sinks, -- O what rapture I feel! --
She sinks on my heart, on my fast-heaving breast;
With shuddering pleasure I hold her close press'd.

Like billows her golden locks circle the pair,
'Gainst my heart beats the heart of the maidon so fair
They beat with a union of sorrow and love,
And soar to the regions of heaven above

While our hearts are thus floating in rapture's wide sea
In God's holy realms, all untrammell'd and free,
On our heads, as a terrible sign and a brand,
Has hell in derision imposed her grim hand.

In propria persona the dark son of night
As parson bestows the priest's blessing to-night;
From a bloody book breathes he the formula terse,
Each prayer execration, each blessing a curse.

A crashing and hissing and howling is heard,
Like rolling of thunder, like waves wildly stirr'd;
When sudden a bluish-tinged light brightly flames,
"For ever, amen!" the old mother exclaims.





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