Withinitwasabitover-clean，abitbare，butwithoutitwasoneofthegreatmemoriesoftherace，therecordofafaithwhichwroughtmiraclesofbeauty，atleast，ifnotpiety。
ThetraingavetheMarchesanother，andlast，viewofitastheyslowlydrewoutofthecity，andbegantorunthroughalevelcountrywalledwithfar-offhills；pastfieldsofbuckwheatshowingtheirstemslikecoralundertheirblacktops；pastpeasanthouseschangingtheirwontedshapetotallerandnarrowerforms；pastsluggishstreamsfromwhichthemistroseandhungoverthemeadows，underaredsunset，glassycleartillthemanifoldfactorychimneysofDusseldorfstaineditwiththeirdunsmoke。
ThisindustrialgreetingseemedoddfromthetownwhereHeinrichHeinewasborn；butwhentheyhadeatentheirsupperinthecapitallittlehoteltheyfoundthere，andwentoutforastroll，theyfoundnothingtoremindthemofthefactories，andmuchtomakethemthinkofthepoet。
Themoon，beautifulandperfectasastagemoon，cameupovertheshoulderofachurchastheypasseddownalongstreetwhichtheyhadalltothemselves。Everybodyseemedtohavegonetobed，butatacertaincorneragirlopenedawindowabovethem，andlookedoutatthemoon。
Whentheyreturnedtotheirhoteltheyfoundahighwalledgardenfacingit，fullofblackdepthsoffoliage。InthenightMarchwokeandsawthemoonstandingoverthegarden，andsilveringitsleafytops。Thiswasreallyasitshouldbeinthetownwheretheidolizedpoetofhisyouthwasborn；thepoetwhomofallothershehadadored，andwhohadonceseemedlikealivingfriend；whohadbeenwitnessofhisfirstlove，andhadhelpedhimtospeakit。HiswifeusedtolaughathimforhisHeine-