Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I' m drowning,
the day has 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.
Death, Heinrich Heine
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I' m drowning,
the day has 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.
Death, Heinrich Heine
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