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Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don And through the blue heavens above us The very clouds move on.
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
Hath
Tree
Flowers
Heaven
Trees
Moving
May
Clouds
Come
Blue
Love
Flower
Blossoms
Sweet
Heavens
Move
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The foolish race of mankind are swarming below in the night they shriek and rage and quarrel - and all of them are right.
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He who fights with priests may make up his mind to have his poor good name torn and befouled by the most infamous lies and the most cutting slanders.
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Tell me who first did kisses suggest? It was a mouth all glowing and blest It kissed and it thought of nothing beside. The fair month of May was then in its pride, The flowers were all from the earth fast springing, The sun was laughing, the birds were singing.
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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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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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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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Thought precedes action as lighting does thunder.
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God will pardon: That's His business.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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He only profits from praise who values criticism.
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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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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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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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