Death: the cool night

Text by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)
Set by Johannes Brahms (1833-1897), op. 96 no. 1
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Death is the cool night.
Life is the sultry day.
It now grows dark; I'm drowsy,
The day has wearied me.

Above my bed rises a tree,
The young nightingale sings there, it seems;
She sings of naught but love -
I hear it even in my dreams.

Death, it is but a cool night,
And life is a sultry day.
It darkens, I slumber now,
Wearied with day's fading light.

Above my bed a tree grows near,
In its bough the young nightingale
Sings of love, of naught but love,
Which, even in my dream, I hear.


translated by an unknown person


translated by Joseph Massaad