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Heinrich Heine
13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856 / Dusseldorf
Der Tod, Das Ist
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Our death is in the cool of night,
Our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
Day’s tired me with light.
Over my head in leaves grown deep,
Sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.
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