A pine tree standeth lonelyIn the North on an upland bare;It standeth whitely shroudedWith snow, and sleepeth there.It dreameth of a Palm treeWhich far in the East alone,In the mournful silence standethOn its ridge of burning stone. - Heinrich Heine
Walking women want to see the southern cross at night And so they set aside a sock, and tie their laces tight Yes mournful is the melody that echoes in their heads Without a beat they march along, believing Bach is dead.
Her vice takes hold of her again, but she still refrains until some moment when, gnawed by some hideous caprice, she comes aground like a mournful wreck ruined by lust, in the midst of her own banal, perfidious pollution. - Jean Lorrain