From Heine's Books of Songs by Heinrich Heine, translated by John Todhunter (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907):


IX.

ON wings of song, Belov'd One,
Away I'll waft thee, to where
I know in the plains of the Ganges
A secret nook most fair.

There sleeps a rich-blossoming garden,
Calm in the still moonlight:
The lotus-flowers are awaiting
Their dearest Sister to-night.

The violets laugh as they prattle,
And gaze on the stars in their spheres
Odorous legends the roses
Breathe low in each others' ears.

There bound, and stand shyly listening,
The gentle timid gazelles;
Afar, from the sacred river,
The waves' deep murmur swells.

There, under the palms reclining,
We'll drink, by the sacred stream,
Of love and rest in full measure,
And blissful dreams will we dream.