The Mattress Grave

by 

Heinrich Heine 

Death, it is but the long, cool night, 

And Life's a dull and sultry day. 
It darkens; I grow drowsy; 

I am weary of the light. 

Over my bed a strange tree gleams 

And there a nightingale is loud. 

She sings of love, love only . . . 
I hear it, even in dreams. 

My Mouche, the other day as I lay here, 

Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave...