Not mine for sure 5. Heinrich heine 1797-1856

We sigh not, we laugh at times
We laugh at times, we often smile
In not a look, in not a gesture
The secret comes to light the while

Deep in our bleeding spirit hidden
It lies in silent misery
If in our wild heart it finds language
The mouths still closed convulsively

Ask the suckling in the cradle
Ask the dead man in the grave
They may perchance disclose the secret
To which I never utterance gave