Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 11, by HEINRICH HEINE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ATTA TROLL; A SUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM: CAPUT 11, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Like some drowsy bayaderes
Last Line: Is a duel with a bug!
Subject(s): Insects; Love; Bugs


LIKE some drowsy bayaderes
Look the mountains, standing shiv'ring
In their snowy shirts of clouds,
Flutt'ring in the breeze of morning.

Yet they soon become enliven'd
By the sun-god stripping from them
All the veil that's hanging o'er them
Lighting up their naked beauty!

Early in the morn I started
With Lascaro on our journey
Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
We arrived at Pont d Espagne.

So they call the bridge which leadeth
Out of France and into Spain,
To the land of west-barbarians,
Who're a thousand years behind us, --

Yes, a thousand years behind us
In all modern civ'lisation;
My barbarians to the eastward
But a hundred years behind are.

Slowly, almost trembling, left I
France's sacred territory,
Blessed fatherland of freedom
And the women that I love!

On the middle of the bridge
A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis'ry
Lurk'd behind his tatter'd mantle,
Misery in his eyes was lurking.

An old crazy mandoline
With his wither'd fingers pinch'd he;
Shrill the discord which re-echoed
From the rocks, as in derision.

Oftentimes his figure bent he
Downward tow'rd the' abyss with laughter,
Tinkling harder then than ever,
While the following words he sang:

"In the middle of my bosom
"Stands a little golden table;
"Round the little golden table
"Stand four little golden chairs.

"On the golden chairs are sitting
"Little ladies, golden arrows
"In their hair, -- at cards they're playing,
"But 'tis only Clara wins.

"As she wins, she laughs with slyness;
"Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
"Thou'lt be ev'ry time a winner,
"For thou holdest nought but trumps."

Wand'ring onward, to myself I
Spoke: "'Tis singular that madness
"Sits and sings upon yon bridge,
"That from France to Spain leads over.

"Is this madman but the emblem
"Of the interchange 'mongst nations
"Of their thoughts? or his own country's
"Wild and crazy title-page?"

We arrived not until evening
At the wretched small posada,
Where an olla-podrida
In a dirty dish was smoking.

There I swallow'd some garbanzos,
Heavy, large as musket-bullets,
Indigestible to Germans,
Though to dumplings they're accustom'd

Fit companion to the cooking
Was the bed. With insects pepper'd
It appear'd. The bugs, alas! are
Far the greatest foes of man.

Fiercer than the wrath of thousand
Elephants, I find the hatred
Of one tiny little bug,
When across my bed it crawleth.

One must let them bite in quiet, --
This is bad enough, -- still more 'tis
If one crushes them. The stink then
Keeps one all night long in torment.

Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble
Is the fight with noxious vermin,
Who a stench employ as weapons, --
Is a duel with a bug!





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