By Heinrich Heine

Oh Dearest, canst thou tell me why
The Rose should be so pale?
And why the azure Violet
Should wither in the vale?

And why the Lark should, in the cloud,
So sorrowfully sing?
And why from loveliest balsam-buds
A scent of death should spring?

And why the Sun upon the mead
So chillingly should frown?
And why the Earth should, like a grave,
Be mouldering and brown?

And why is it that I, myself,
So languishing should be?
And why is it, my Heart-of-Hearts,
That thou forsakest me?

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