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All I really want is enough to live on, a little house in the country... and a tree in the garden with seven of my enemies hanging in it.
Heinrich Heine
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Heinrich Heine
Age: 58 †
Born: 1797
Born: December 13
Died: 1856
Died: February 17
Author
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Publicist
Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
House
Littles
Live
Hanging
Little
Enemies
Country
Seven
Enough
Garden
Really
Tree
Enemy
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The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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What lies lurk in kisses.
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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.
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Atheism is the last word of theism
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Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.
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Experience is a good school. But the fees are high.
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The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.
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As the stars are the glory of the sky, so great men are the glory of their country, yea, of the whole earth. The hearts of great men are the stars of earth and doubtless when one looks down from above upon our planet, these hearts are seen to send forth, a silvery light just like the stars of heaven.
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Where words leave off, music begins.
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Reason exercises merely the function of preserving order, is, so to say, the police in the region of art. In life it is mostly a cold arithmetician summing up our follies.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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In politics, as in life, we must above all things wish only for the attainable.
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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity.
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Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!
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Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
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The deepest truth blooms only from the deepest love.
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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.
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A lonely fir-tree is standing On a northern barren height It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift Cast round it a garment of white.
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