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Oh, they loved dearly: their souls kissed, they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss.
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
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Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Dearly
Eyes
Kissed
Eye
Teenage
Soul
Kiss
Souls
Kissing
Single
Loved
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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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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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The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, And flirted around all day While round him in turn with her golden caress, Soft fluttered the sun's warm ray.... I know not with whom the rose was in love, But I know that I loved them all. The butterfly, rose, and the sun's bright ray, The star and the bird's sweet call.
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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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The gazelles so gentle and clever Skip lightly in frolicsome mood.
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The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
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The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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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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God will pardon: That's His business.
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Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.
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Glow-worms on the ground are moving, As if in the torch-dance circling.
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Jews who long have drifted from the faith of their fathers... are stirred in their inmost parts when the old, familiar Passover sounds chance to fall upon their ears.
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Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.
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The air grows cool and darkles, The Rhine flows calmly on The mountain summit sparkles In the light of the setting sun.
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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
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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.
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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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Ask me not what I have, but what I am.
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