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Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
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
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Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Talking
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More quotes by Heinrich Heine
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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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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Where words leave off, music begins.
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Like a great poet, Nature produces the greatest results with the simplest means. These are simply a sun, trees, flowers, water and love.
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In politics, as in life, we must above all things wish only for the attainable.
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In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I, My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the time gone by.
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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle. For it stands halfway between thought and phenomenon, between spirit and matter.
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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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He who fears to venture as far as his heart urges and his reason permits, is a coward he who ventures further than he intended to go, is a slave.
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Our sweetest hopes rise blooming. And then again are gone, They bloom and fade alternate, And so it goes rolling on. I know it, and it troubles My life, my love, my rest, My heart is wise and witty, And it bleeds within my breast.
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Everywhere that a great soul gives utterance to its thoughts, there also is a Golgotha.
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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.
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God will pardon me. It is His trade.
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He is noble who both feels and acts nobly.
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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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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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The spring's already at the gate With looks my care beguiling The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling.
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