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Oh fair, oh sweet and holy as dew at morning tide, I gaze on thee, and yearnings, sad in my bosom hide.

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
Morning
Tides
Life
Yearning
Hide
Yearnings
Fairs
Dew
Fair
Bosom
Thee
Bosoms
Sweet
Tide
Holy
Gaze

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Religion cannot sink lower than when somehow it is raised to a state religion ... It becomes then an avowed mistress.
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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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True eloquence consists in saying all that is necessary, and nothing but what is necessary.
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It must require an inordinate share of vanity and presumption, too, after enjoying so much that is good and beautiful on earth, to ask the Lord for immortality in addition to it all.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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The arrow belongs not to the archer when it has once left the bow the word no longer belongs to the speaker when it has once passed his lips, especially when it has been multiplied by the press.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.
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Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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I call'd the devil, and he came, And with wonder his form did I closely scan He is not ugly, and is not lame, But really a handsome and charming man. A man in the prime of life is the devil, Obliging, a man of the world, and civil A diplomatist too, well skill'd in debate, He talks quite glibly of church and state.
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And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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Twelve Dancings are dancing, and taking no rest, And closely their hands together are press'd And soon as a dance has come to a close, Another begins, and each merrily goes.
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The lotus flower is troubled At the sun's resplendent light With sunken head and sadly She dreamily waits for the night.
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Atheism is the last word of theism
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I consider it a degradation and a stain on my honor to submit to baptism in order to qualify myself for state employment in Prussia.
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We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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When'er into thine eyes I see, All pain and sorrow fly from me. [Ger., Wenn ich in deine Augen sch' So schwindet all' mein Leid und Weh.]
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