A Pilgrimage to Kevlaar, by Heinrich Heine

Translation by Leon Malinofsky

The mother watched the window;

In bed lay her sick son.

“Will you not rise up, William,

And see the procession?”

“I am so ill, oh Mother,

That I can’t hear or see;

I think of poor dead Gretchen,

And so my heart hurts me.”

“Stand up, we’ll go to Kevlaar,

With Book and rosary;

And God’s beloved mother

Will heal thy heart for thee.”

Their church flags are aflutter,

They sing in sacred tone;

It is to Koellen in Rhineland

Where goes the procession.

The mother leads her son,

They trail the company,

They both sing out in chorus:

“Praise be to you, Marie!”

God’s mother wears to Kevlaar

Today her finest clothes;

And she will heal so many,

Where the procession goes.

The suffering people bring her

Their tributes when they meet,

Limbs made out of candles,

And waxen hands and feet.

Who offers her a wax-hand,
His wound heals for him on the hand;
And who a wax-foot offers,
Once more on the foot can stand.

To Kevlaar went many on crutches,

Who now could dance on a rail,

And some now play the viola

Whose fingers aforetime would fail.

The mother took a candle,

And built from it a heart.

“Bear this to Mother Mary,

Be healed by her blessed art.”

He sighed as he took up the wax-heart,

His tears welled up in his eyes;

He went to Marie’s sacred picture,

And from his heart he cries:

“You kind and blessed Mother

So pure and so clement

You queen of all of Heaven,

Oh hear my sad lament!

I live here with my mother

At Koellen in the town,

We’ve hundreds here of chapels

And churches up and down.

And near us lived my Gretchen,

But death has made us part

Marie, take my waxen tribute,

And heal my grieving heart.

Heal thou my heart so troubled

And day and night for thee

I’ll sing with true devotion

“Praise be to you, Marie!”

The sick son and the mother,

Each slept in a little bed;

And Mother Mary came in

With lightest step and tread.

She leaned above the sick son,

And laid her hand then, too

So softly on his poor heart,

Laughed gently, and withdrew.

The mother sees all in a dream,

And then she sees still more;

She awakened from her slumber

The dogs bayed so loud at the door.

There lay stretched out before her

Her son, and he was dead;

Full on his pale white features

Spilled morning’s light so red.

The mother folded her hands then,

Her course, she couldn’t see;

Devotedly she sang low:

“Praise be to you, Marie!”