Heine, Heinrich - The poor soul speaketh to its clay
Type of Spiritual Experience
A description of the experience
Poems Selected from Heinrich Heine – by Kate Freiligrath Kroeker
The poor soul speaketh to its clay
'I cannot leave thee thus; I'll stay
With thee, with thee in death I'll sink
And black Annihilation drink!
Thou still hast been my second I,
Embracing me so lovingly
A satin feast robe round my form
Doubled with ermine soft and warm
Woe's me! I dare not face the fact
Quite disembodied, quite abstract
To loiter as a blessed Nought
Above there in the realms of thought
Through heavenly halls, immense and frigid
Where the immortals dumb and rigid
Yawn to me as they clatter by
With leaden clogs so wearily.
Oh it is horrible! Oh stay
Stay with me thou beloved Clay'.
The body to the poor soul said
'Oh murmur not be comforted
We all should quietly endure
The wounds of fate, which none can cure.
I was the lamp's wick, and to dust
Consume; but thou, the Spirit must
Be saved with care, and lifted far
To shine in heaven, a little Star
Of purest light. I am but cinder
Mere matter, rubbish rotten tinder
Losing the shape we took at birth
Mouldering again to earth in earth.
Now, fare thee well, and grieve no more