Lindo lindo lindo

Song 1 (Op. 48, No. 1) Im wunderschönen Monat Mai, als alle Knospen sprangen, da ist in meinem Herzen die Liebe aufgegangen. Im wunderschönen Monat Mai, als alle Vögel sangen, da hab' ich ihr gestanden mein Sehnen und Verlangen.	Poem I In the wonderfully fair month of May, as all the flower-buds burst, then in my heart love arose. In the wonderfully fair month of May, as all the birds were singing, then I confessed to her my yearning and longing.
Song 2 (Op. 48, No. 2) Aus meinen Tränen sprießen viel blühende Blumen hervor, und meine Seufzer werden ein Nachtigallenchor, und wenn du mich lieb hast, Kindchen, schenk' ich dir die Blumen all', und vor deinem Fenster soll klingen das Lied der Nachtigall.	Poem II From my tears spring many blooming flowers forth, and my sighs become a nightingale choir, and if you have love for me, child, I'll give you all the flowers, and before your window shall sound the song of the nightingale.
Song 3 (Op. 48, No. 3) Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne, die liebt' ich einst alle in Liebeswonne. Ich lieb' sie nicht mehr, ich liebe alleine die Kleine, die Feine, die Reine, die Eine; sie selber, aller Liebe Bronne, ist Rose und Lilie und Taube und Sonne.	Poem III The rose, the lily, the dove, the sun, I once loved them all in love's bliss. I love them no more, I love only the small, the fine, the pure, the one; she herself, source of all love, is rose and lily and dove and sun.
Song 4 (Op. 48, No. 4) Wenn ich in deine Augen seh', so schwindet all' mein Leid und Weh! Doch wenn ich küsse deinen Mund, so werd' ich ganz und gar gesund. Wenn ich mich lehn' an deine Brust, kommt's über mich wie Himmelslust, doch wenn du sprichst: Ich liebe dich! so muß ich weinen bitterlich.	Poem IV When I look into your eyes, then vanish all my sorrow and pain! Ah, but when I kiss your mouth, then I will be wholly and completely healthy. When I lean on your breast, I am overcome with heavenly delight, ah, but when you say, "I love you!" then I must weep bitterly.
Song 5 (Op. 127, No. 2)   Dein Angesicht so lieb und schön, das hab' ich jüngst im Traum geseh'n; es ist so mild und engelgleich, und doch so bleich, so schmerzenreich. Und nur die Lippen, die sind rot; bald aber küßt sie bleich der Tod. Erlöschen wird das Himmelslicht, das aus den frommen Augen bricht.	Poem V Your face, so dear and fair, that I have recently seen in a dream; it is so mild and angelic, and yet so pale, so rich in sorrow. And only your lips are red; but soon they will be kissed pale by death. Extinguished shall be the heavenly light, which streams from those innocent eyes.
Song 6 (Op. 142, No. 2)   Lehn deine Wang' an meine Wang', dann fließen die Tränen zusammen; und an mein Herz drück' fest dein Herz, dann schlagen zusammen die Flammen! Und wenn in die große Flamme fließt der Strom von unsern Tränen, und wenn dich mein Arm gewaltig umschließt - sterb' ich vor Liebessehnen!	Poem VI   Rest your cheek against my cheek, then shall our tears flow together; and against my heart press firmly your heart, then together shall our flames pulse! And when into the great flame flows the stream of our tears, and when my arm holds you tight - I shall die of love's yearning!
Song 7 (Op. 48, No. 5) Ich will meine Seele tauchen in den Kelch der Lilie hinein; die Lilie soll klingend hauchen ein Lied von der Liebsten mein. Das Lied soll schauern und beben, wie der Kuß von ihrem Mund', den sie mir einst gegeben in wunderbar süßer Stund'!	Poem VII I want to plunge my soul into the chalice of the lily; the lily shall resoundingly exhale a song of my beloved. The song shall quiver and tremble, like the kiss from her mouth, that she once gave me in a wonderfully sweet hour!
Song 8 (Op. 48, No. 6) Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome, da spiegelt sich in den Well'n mit seinem großen Dome das große, heilige Köln. Im Dom da steht ein Bildniß auf goldenem Leder gemalt. In meines Lebens Wildniß hat's freundlich hineingestrahlt. Es schweben Blumen und Eng'lein um unsre liebe Frau; die Augen, die Lippen, die Wänglein, die gleichen der Liebsten genau.	Poem XI In the Rhine, in the holy stream, there is mirrored in the waves, with its great cathedral, great holy Cologne. In the cathedral, there stands an image on golden leather painted. Into my life's wilderness it has shined in amicably. There hover flowers and little angels around our beloved Lady, the eyes, the lips, the little cheeks, they match my beloved's exactly.
Song 9 (Op. 48, No. 7) Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht, ewig verlor'nes Lieb! Ich grolle nicht. Wie du auch strahlst in Diamantenpracht, es fällt kein Strahl in deines Herzens Nacht, das weiß ich längst. Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht. Ich sah dich ja im Traume, und sah die Nacht in deines Herzens Raume, und sah die Schlang', die dir am Herzen frißt, ich sah, mein Lieb, wie sehr du elend bist. Ich grolle nicht.	Poem XVIII I bear no grudge, even as my heart is breaking, eternally lost love! I bear no grudge. Even though you shine in diamond splendor, there falls no light into your heart's night, that I've known for a long time. I bear no grudge, even as my heart is breaking. I saw you, truly, in my dreams, and saw the night in your heart's cavity, and saw the serpent that feeds on your heart, I saw, my love, how very miserable you are. I bear no grudge.
Song 10 (Op. 48, No. 8) Und wüßten's die Blumen, die kleinen, wie tief verwundet mein Herz, sie würden mit mir weinen zu heilen meinen Schmerz. Und wüßten's die Nachtigallen, wie ich so traurig und krank, sie ließen fröhlich erschallen erquickenden Gesang. Und wüßten sie mein Wehe, die goldenen Sternelein, sie kämen aus ihrer Höhe, und sprächen Trost mir ein. Die alle können's nicht wissen, nur Eine kennt meinen Schmerz; sie hat ja selbst zerrissen, zerrissen mir das Herz.	Poem XXII And if they knew it, the blooms, the little ones, how deeply wounded my heart is, they would weep with me to heal my pain. And if they knew it, the nightingales, how I am so sad and sick, they would merrily unleash refreshing song. And if they knew my pain, the golden little stars, they would descend from their heights and would comfort me. All of them cannot know it, only one knows my pain, she herself has indeed torn, torn up my heart.
Song 11 (Op. 48, No. 9) Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen, Trompeten schmettern darein. Da tanzt wohl den Hochzeitreigen die Herzallerliebste mein. Das ist ein Klingen und Dröhnen, ein Pauken und ein Schalmei'n; dazwischen schluchzen und stöhnen die lieblichen Engelein.	Poem XX There is a fluting and fiddling, and trumpets blasting in. Surely, there dancing the wedding dance is my dearest beloved. There is a ringing and roaring of drums and shawms, amidst it sobbing and moaning are dear little angels.
Song 12 (Op. 48, No. 10) Hör' ich das Liedchen klingen, das einst die Liebste sang, so will mir die Brust zerspringen von wildem Schmerzendrang. Es treibt mich ein dunkles Sehnen hinauf zur Waldeshöh', dort lös't sich auf in Tränen mein übergroßes Weh'.	Poem XLI I hear the little song sounding that my beloved once sang, and my heart wants to shatter from savage pain's pressure. I am driven by a dark longing up to the wooded heights, there is dissolved in tears my supremely great pain.
Song 13 (Op. 48, No. 11) Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen, die hat einen Andern erwählt; der Andre liebt' eine Andre, und hat sich mit dieser vermählt. Das Mädchen nimmt aus Ärger den ersten besten Mann der ihr in den Weg gelaufen; der Jüngling ist übel dran. Es ist eine alte Geschichte doch bleibt sie immer neu; und wem sie just passieret, dem bricht das Herz entzwei.	Poem XL A young man loves a girl, who has chosen another man, the other loves yet another and has gotten married to her. The girl takes out of resentment the first, best man who crosses her path; the young man is badly off. It is an old story but remains eternally new, and for him to whom it has just happened it breaks his heart in two.
Song 14 (Op. 48, No. 12) Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen geh' ich im Garten herum. Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen, ich aber wandle stumm. Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen, und schau'n mitleidig mich an: Sei uns'rer Schwester nicht böse, du trauriger, blasser Mann.	Poem XLVI On a shining summer morning I go about in the garden. The flowers are whispering and speaking, I however wander silently. The flowers are whispering and speaking, and look sympathetically at me: "Do not be angry with our sister, you sad, pale man."
Song 15 (Op. 127, No. 3)   Es leuchtet meine Liebe, in ihrer dunkeln Pracht, wie'n Märchen traurig und trübe, erzählt in der Sommernacht. Im Zaubergarten wallen zwei Buhlen, stumm und allein; es singen die Nachtigallen, es flimmert der Mondenschein. Die Jungfrau steht still wie ein Bildnis, der Ritter vor ihr kniet. Da kommt der Riese der Wildnis, die bange Jungfrau flieht. Der Ritter sinkt blutend zur Erde, es stolpert der Riese nach Haus. Wenn ich begraben werde, dann ist das Märchen aus.	Poem XLVII   My love, it shines in its dark splendor, like a fairy-tale, sad and bleak, told on a summer night. In a magic garden appear two lovers, mute and alone; the nightingales are singing, the moonlight is shimmering. The maiden stands still as a portrait, the knight before her kneels. Then comes the giant of the wilderness, the fearful maiden flees. The knight sinks, bleeding, to the earth, then the giant stumbles home. When I am buried, then the fairy-tale is over.
Song 16 (Op. 142, No. 4)   Mein Wagen rollet langsam durch lustiges Waldesgrün, durch blumige Täler, die zaubrisch im Sonnenglanze blüh'n. Ich sitze und sinne und träume, und denk' an die Liebste mein; Da grüßen drei Schattengestalten kopfnickend zum Wagen herein. Sie hüpfen und schneiden Gesichter, so spöttisch und doch so scheu, und quirlen wie Nebel zusammen, und kichern und huschen vorbei.	Poem LV   My coach rolls slowly through the merry forest green, through blooming valleys, which magically bloom in the sun's gleam. I sit and reflect and dream, and think on my beloved; then I am greeted by three shadowy forms nodding at the coach. They hop and make faces, so mocking and yet so shy, and whirl like mist together, and snicker and scurry by.
Song 17 (Op. 48, No. 13) Ich hab' im Traum geweinet, mir träumte du lägest im Grab. Ich wachte auf, und die Träne floß noch von der Wange herab. Ich hab' im Traum geweinet, mir träumt' du verließest mich. Ich wachte auf, und ich weinte noch lange bitterlich. Ich hab' im Traum geweinet, mir träumte du wär'st mir noch gut. Ich wachte auf, und noch immer strömt meine Tränenflut.	Poem LVI I have in my dreams wept, I dreamed you lay in your grave. I woke up and the tears still flowed down from my cheeks. I have in my dreams wept, I dreamed you forsook me. I woke up and I wept for a long time and bitterly. I have in my dreams wept, I dreamed you still were good to me. I woke up, and still now streams my flood of tears.
Song 18 (Op. 48, No. 14) Allnächtlich im Traume seh' ich dich, und sehe dich freundlich grüßen, und lautaufweinend stürz' ich mich zu deinen süßen Füßen. Du siehest mich an wehmütiglich, und schüttelst das blonde Köpfchen; aus deinen Augen schleichen sich die Perlentränentröpfchen. Du sagst mir heimlich ein leises Wort, und gibst mir den Strauß von Zypressen. Ich wache auf, und der Strauß ist fort, und's Wort hab' ich vergessen.	Poem LVII Every night in my dreams I see you, and see your friendly greeting, and loudly crying out, I throw myself at your sweet feet. You look at me wistfully and shake your blond little head; from your eyes steal forth little pearly teardrops. You say to me secretly a soft word, and give me a garland of cypress. I wake up, and the garland is gone, and the word I have forgotten.
Song 19 (Op. 48, No. 15) Aus alten Märchen winkt es hervor mit weißer Hand, da singt es und da klingt es von einem Zauberland'; wo bunte Blumen blühen im gold'nen Abendlicht, und lieblich duftend glühen mit bräutlichem Gesicht; Und grüne Bäume singen uralte Melodei'n, die Lüfte heimlich klingen, und Vögel schmettern drein; Und Nebelbilder steigen wohl aus der Erd' hervor, und tanzen luft'gen Reigen im wunderlichen Chor; Und blaue Funken brennen an jedem Blatt und Reis, und rote Lichter rennen im irren, wirren Kreis; Und laute Quellen brechen aus wildem Marmorstein, und seltsam in den Bächen strahlt fort der Widerschein. Ach! könnt' ich dorthin kommen, und dort mein Herz erfreu'n, und aller Qual entnommen, und frei und selig sein! Ach! jenes Land der Wonne, das seh' ich oft im Traum, doch kommt die Morgensonne, zerfließt's wie eitel Schaum.	Poem XLIV From old fairy-tales it beckons to me with a white hand, there it sings and there it resounds of a magic land, where colorful flowers bloom in the golden twilight, and sweetly, fragrantly glow with a bride-like face. And green trees sing primeval melodies, the breezes secretly sound and birds warble in them. And misty images rise indeed forth from the earth, and dance airy reels in fantastic chorus. And blue sparks burn on every leaf and twig, and red lights run in crazy, hazy rings. And loud springs burst out of wild marble stone, and oddly in the brooks shine forth the reflections. Ah! If I could enter there and there gladden my heart, and have all anguish taken away, and be free and blessed! Oh, that land of bliss, I see it often in dreams, but come the morning sun, and it melts away like mere froth.
Song 20 (Op. 48, No. 16) Die alten, bösen Lieder, die Träume bös' und arg, die laßt uns jetzt begraben, holt einen großen Sarg. Hinein leg' ich gar manches, doch sag' ich noch nicht was. Der Sarg muß sein noch größer wie's Heidelberger Faß. Und holt eine Totenbahre, von Bretter fest und dick; auch muß sie sein noch länger als wie zu Mainz die Brück'. Und holt mir auch zwölf Riesen, die müssen noch stärker sein als wie der starke Christoph im Dom zu Köln am Rhein. Die sollen den Sarg forttragen, und senken in's Meer hinab; denn solchem großen Sarge gebührt ein großes Grab. Wißt ihr warum der Sarg wohl so groß und schwer mag sein? Ich senkt' auch meine Liebe Und meinen Schmerz hinein.	Poem LXVI The old, angry songs, the dreams angry and nasty, let us now bury them, fetch a great coffin. In it I will lay very many things, though I shall not yet say what. The coffin must be even larger than the Heidelberg Tun. And fetch a death-bier, of boards firm and thick, they also must be even longer than Mainz's great bridge. And fetch me also twelve giants, who must be yet mightier than mighty St. Christopher in the Cathedral of Cologne on the Rhine. They shall carry the coffin away, and sink it down into the sea, for such a great coffin deserves a great grave. How could the coffin be so large and heavy? I also sank my love with my pain in it.

Poem I

In the wonderfully fair month of May,
as all the flower-buds burst,
then in my heart
love arose.

In the wonderfully fair month of May,
as all the birds were singing,
then I confessed to her
my yearning and longing.

Poem II

From my tears spring
many blooming flowers forth,
and my sighs become
a nightingale choir,

and if you have love for me, child,
I'll give you all the flowers,
and before your window shall sound
the song of the nightingale.

Poem III

The rose, the lily, the dove, the sun,
I once loved them all in love's bliss.
I love them no more, I love only
the small, the fine, the pure, the one;
she herself, source of all love,
is rose and lily and dove and sun.

Poem IV

When I look into your eyes,
then vanish all my sorrow and pain!
Ah, but when I kiss your mouth,
then I will be wholly and completely healthy.

When I lean on your breast,
I am overcome with heavenly delight,
ah, but when you say, "I love you!"
then I must weep bitterly.

Poem V

Your face, so dear and fair,
that I have recently seen in a dream;
it is so mild and angelic,
and yet so pale, so rich in sorrow.

And only your lips are red;
but soon they will be kissed pale by death.
Extinguished shall be the heavenly light,
which streams from those innocent eyes.

Poem VI

Rest your cheek against my cheek,
then shall our tears flow together;
and against my heart press firmly your heart,
then together shall our flames pulse!

And when into the great flame
flows the stream of our tears,
and when my arm holds you tight - 
I shall die of love's yearning!

Poem VII

I want to plunge my soul
into the chalice of the lily;
the lily shall resoundingly exhale
a song of my beloved.

The song shall quiver and tremble,
like the kiss from her mouth,
that she once gave me
in a wonderfully sweet hour!

Poem XI

In the Rhine, in the holy stream,
there is mirrored in the waves,
with its great cathedral,
great holy Cologne.

In the cathedral, there stands an image
on golden leather painted.
Into my life's wilderness
it has shined in amicably.

There hover flowers and little angels
around our beloved Lady,
the eyes, the lips, the little cheeks,
they match my beloved's exactly.

Poem XVIII

I bear no grudge, even as my heart is breaking,
eternally lost love!  I bear no grudge.
Even though you shine in diamond splendor,
there falls no light into your heart's night,

that I've known for a long time.
I bear no grudge, even as my heart is breaking.
                    I saw you, truly, in my dreams,
and saw the night in your heart's cavity,
and saw the serpent that feeds on your heart,
I saw, my love, how very miserable you are.
I bear no grudge.

Poem XXII

And if they knew it, the blooms, the little ones,
how deeply wounded my heart is,
they would weep with me
to heal my pain.

And if they knew it, the nightingales,
how I am so sad and sick,
they would merrily unleash
refreshing song.

And if they knew my pain,
the golden little stars,
they would descend from their heights
and would comfort me.

All of them cannot know it,
only one knows my pain,
she herself has indeed torn,
torn up my heart.

Poem XX

There is a fluting and fiddling,
and trumpets blasting in.
Surely, there dancing the wedding dance
is my dearest beloved.

There is a ringing and roaring
of drums and shawms,
amidst it sobbing and moaning
are dear little angels.

Poem XLI

I hear the little song sounding
that my beloved once sang,
and my heart wants to shatter
from savage pain's pressure.

I am driven by a dark longing
up to the wooded heights,
there is dissolved in tears
my supremely great pain.

Poem XL

A young man loves a girl,
who has chosen another man,
the other loves yet another
and has gotten married to her.

The girl takes out of resentment
the first, best man
who crosses her path;
the young man is badly off.

It is an old story
but remains eternally new,
and for him to whom it has just happened
it breaks his heart in two.

Poem XLVI

On a shining summer morning
 I go about in the garden.
 The flowers are whispering and speaking,
 I however wander silently.

 The flowers are whispering and speaking,
 and look sympathetically at me:
"Do not be angry with our sister,
 you sad, pale man."

Poem XLVII

My love, it shines
in its dark splendor,
like a fairy-tale, sad and bleak,
told on a summer night.

In a magic garden appear
two lovers, mute and alone;
the nightingales are singing,
the moonlight is shimmering.

The maiden stands still as a portrait,
the knight before her kneels.
Then comes the giant of the wilderness,
the fearful maiden flees.

The knight sinks, bleeding, to the earth,
then the giant stumbles home.
When I am buried,
then the fairy-tale is over.

Poem LV

My coach rolls slowly
through the merry forest green,
through blooming valleys, which magically
bloom in the sun's gleam.

I sit and reflect and dream,
and think on my beloved;
then I am greeted by three shadowy forms
nodding at the coach.

They hop and make faces,
so mocking and yet so shy,
and whirl like mist together,
and snicker and scurry by.

Poem LVI

I have in my dreams wept,
I dreamed you lay in your grave.
I woke up and the tears
still flowed down from my cheeks.

I have in my dreams wept,
I dreamed you forsook me.
I woke up and I wept
for a long time and bitterly.

I have in my dreams wept,
I dreamed you still were good to me.
I woke up, and still now
streams my flood of tears.

Poem LVII

Every night in my dreams I see you,
and see your friendly greeting,
and loudly crying out, I throw myself
at your sweet feet.

You look at me wistfully
and shake your blond little head;
from your eyes steal forth
little pearly teardrops.

You say to me secretly a soft word,
and give me a garland of cypress.
I wake up, and the garland is gone,
and the word I have forgotten.

Poem XLIV

From old fairy-tales it beckons
to me with a white hand,
there it sings and there it resounds
of a magic land,

where colorful flowers bloom
in the golden twilight,
and sweetly, fragrantly glow
with a bride-like face.

And green trees sing
primeval melodies,
the breezes secretly sound
and birds warble in them.

And misty images rise
indeed forth from the earth,
and dance airy reels
in fantastic chorus.

And blue sparks burn
on every leaf and twig,
and red lights run
in crazy, hazy rings.

And loud springs burst
out of wild marble stone,
and oddly in the brooks
shine forth the reflections.

Ah! If I could enter there
and there gladden my heart,
and have all anguish taken away,
and be free and blessed!

Oh, that land of bliss,
I see it often in dreams,
but come the morning sun,
and it melts away like mere froth.

Poem LXVI

The old, angry songs,
the dreams angry and nasty,
let us now bury them,
fetch a great coffin.

In it I will lay very many things,
though I shall not yet say what.
The coffin must be even larger
than the Heidelberg Tun.

And fetch a death-bier,
of boards firm and thick,
they also must be even longer
than Mainz's great bridge.

And fetch me also twelve giants,
who must be yet mightier
than mighty St. Christopher
in the Cathedral of Cologne on the Rhine.

They shall carry the coffin away,
and sink it down into the sea,
for such a great coffin
deserves a great grave.

How could the coffin
be so large and heavy?
I also sank my love
with my pain in it.

About Heinrich Heine (1797? – 1856) and the Poems

Chaim Harry Heine was born in Düsseldorf in western Germany in December of 1797 (or possibly 1799). He studied law in Göttingen, Bonn and Berlin, completing his degree in 1825. That same year, perhaps in an attempt to secure government employment or a stable university professorship, he converted to Christianity, renaming himself Christian Johann Heinrich Heine. But he had already published a volume of poetry as a student in 1821, and saw his future as a creative artist rather than a petty bureaucrat. Heine spent the remainder of his life writing poetry and prose. Some of his writing tended to be more radical and iconoclastic and ran afoul of German censors, causing Heine to accept self-exile to Paris in 1831. Heine continued to write in Paris, though in 1848 he began to suffer the effects of a painful paralyzing spinal illness that confined him to what he called his “mattress-grave.” Heine died in Paris in February 1856.

Heine found his voice as a poet very early in his career, establishing his reputation with his second volume, the Tragödien, nebst einem lyrischen Intermezzo (Tragedies with a Lyric Intermezzo) of 1823. Heine reworked the Lyric Intermezzo and republished it in his first anthology, the Buch der Lieder (Book of Songs) of 1827. This anthology became a classic of Romantic German literature and composers began setting his poems to music within a year of the book’s publication.

Heine’s poetry is rooted in riddles, allegories, allusions, dreams and above all ambivalences and contradictions. Heine mixed naked honesty with savage irony, constructed a folk-like simplicity with the keenest artifice, mingled autobiography with fantasy, comedy and tragedy, love and hate. The sixty-six poems of the Lyric Intermezzo explore the emotions of someone who has just lost a sweetheart, and often these conflicting emotions tangle in the same poem. The goal of these contradictions is to create a bridge to another world, though it is not clear if the ultimate aim is forgiveness and redemption or bitterness and isolation. Robert Schumann may have put it best when he wrote, “At certain points in time, (Heine’s) poetry dons the mask of irony in order to conceal its visage of pain; perhaps for a moment the friendly hand of a genius may lift that mask so that wild tears may be transformed into pearls.”

About Robert Schumann (1810 – 1856) and the Song Cycle

Schumann was born in June 1810 in the town of Zwickau in modern southeastern Germany. Like Heine, Schumann was pushed to study law (in his case at Leipzig and Heidelberg) and like Heine, Schumann abandoned a lawyer’s life to pursue a creative career, in his case as a composer, pianist and music critic. Schumann’s earliest compositions were collections of piano pieces that sought to incorporate literary ideas into the musical construction. His writing as early as 1831 also shows a split personality with two distinct dueling halves: Florestan, the representation of the active and passionate, and Eusebius, who was dreamy and contemplative.

Schumann fell in love with Clara Wieck, the pianist prodigy daughter of his piano teacher Friedrich Wieck. Wieck objected to Schumann as a potential son-in-law, and the stresses and roadblocks of a thwarted romance led Schumann to turn to poetry and song in the extraordinary “song-year” of 1840, when Schumann wrote over a third of all the songs he wrote in his lifetime.

In that oeuvre, the songs to texts by Heinrich Heine stand out. Perhaps Heine’s intrinsic contradictions appealed to Schumann’s split personalities. Maybe the cunnning craft of Heine’s poetry brought something out of Schumann the master miniaturist. In any event, many of Schumann’s most beloved songs are set to Heine texts. Schumann selected twenty of the sixty-six poems of Heine’s Lyric Intermezzo, rearranged poem order and altered some texts to create a cylical narrative. He fashioned music to match the poems in nine wonderfully fair days in the month of May 1840. The song cycle, titled “Twenty Songs from the Lyric Intermezzo in the Book of Songs for One Singer and Piano,” was rejected by at least three different publishers in 1840 and 1843. C.F. Peters accepted the set for publication in November 1843, but four songs would be removed from the cycle and someone (it is not known who) attached the title Dichterliebe to the cycle.

Schumann’s songs feel more like an extension of his earlier piano music than music conceived for the voice. The piano typically carries most of the melody, with extended preludes and postludes that comment on the poems and give voice to thoughts and feelings that the words only decorate. Schumann continues his knack for creating literary effects in music: the wistful, ambivalent longing of Im wunderschönen Monat Mai is expressed in unsteady harmony veering between major and relative minor before settling on an unresolved dominant seventh chord. For Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome, Schumann elicits the feel of Köln Cathedral, whose bells were the first in Christendom to sound out three consecutive notes of the scale, by playing a bell-like figure in the left hand while the right hand plays snatches of a Bach organ prelude. Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet evokes Heine’s nightmares with one of the sparest piano parts ever put into an art song, while the voice recalls melodic fragments from Wenn ich in deine Augen seh, casting the words of that poem in a new light. And Schumann uses common musical motifs between songs to pull ideas together, such as the disembodied melodies bringing forth painful memories in Hör ich das Liedchen klingen and Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen, and the parallel postludes of Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen, and the final Die alten, bösen Lieder. In this way, Schumann created a song cycle that remains a perennial favorite in the art song literature.

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