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Heinrich Heine

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from Romanzero – Lamentationen

Imperfection

Nothing is perfect in this world of ours.
The rose comes well-provided with sharp thorns;
in fact, to my best knowledge, even the angels
in heaven have been faulted for their forms.

The tulip has no scent. Along the Rhine
it’s said that Mr Honest filched a pig.
Lucretia, had she not stabbed herself,
perhaps had borne a bastard – for a fig.

The proudest peacock has unlovely feet,
and there are times a bright amusing wife
can bore one more than Voltaire’s Henriade,
or Klopstock with his epic on Christ’s life.

The best and brightest cow cannot speak Spanish,
nor Massmann Latin, but we’ll let that pass;
Canova’s bust of Venus is too smooth,
and Massmann’s nose is flatter than his ass.

The sweetest songs are marred with sour rhymes,
as bee stings wait to prick in honied mead.
The son of Thetis possessed an Achilles heel,
and Alexander Dumas is a half-breed.

The star that shines in heaven the very brightest
can fall, if its poor nose begins to run.
Good cider still retains the barrel’s flavour,
and black spots have been noted on the sun.

And you, my honoured, noble woman are
not free of faults, not one harmonious whole.
You look at me – you ask me what you lack?
Fine breasts, my dear, and in your breast, a soul.

Translated by Douglas Airmet

Page(s) 20-21

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