HEINRICH HEINE - Repositories

Then yawns the eldest daughter,
"I will starve no longer here;
I will go to the Count to-morrow.
He is rich, and he loves me dear."
The son bursts out a-laughing:
"At the 'Star' three huntsmen drink deep;
They are making gold, and they promise
To give me their secret to keep."
Toward his lean face, flings the mother
Her Bible, in wrath and grief.
"Out! God-forsaken beggar.
Thou wilt be a common thief!"
They hear a tap on the window.
And behold a beckoning hand.
There in his sable vestments
They see the dead father stand.
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