While reading Rene Schickele and Else Lasker-Schuler

Schuler's writing is flat compared to the work of her time. It reads to me as superficial and rather cheesy. Sometimes it's insincere--and for a love poem, that is a cardinal sin. I much prefer the dismal qualities of her counterparts.

Oh, how I think of you--
Just ask the night.
My heart becomes a child
and cries out.
At each doorway along the street
I linger and dream
And help the sun paint your beauty
on all the walls of the houses.
But I wane away
thinking of you.
I wind myself around slender pillars
until they sway.
--------
I wish that a tiger
would stretch its body
Across the distance that separates us,
like a bridge to a nearby star.