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Farewell, you cheerful folk of France,
My brethren’s merry throng,
A foolish nostalgia drives me hence,
I’ll be back, though, before long.
Imagine—I yearn beyond belief
For the smell of heather and…
At home I have a blue piano,
I, who cannot play a note.
It stands in the gloom of the cellar door,
now that the world has grown coarse.
The four hands of the stars play there
—the moonwife sang…
A medieval rabbi barely escapes from a blood libel accusation at his own Seder table in this prescient nineteenth-century story by the famous German Romantic poet Heinrich Heine.
With every stone that was set in the new barn, another drop of life seemed to ebb from the wife of the randar or tavern keeper. When she looked out at the building, she often said that she would not…