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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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
Write
Cannot
Writing
Heart
Masses
Mass
More quotes by Heinrich Heine
Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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Each violet peeps from its dwelling to gaze at the bright stars above.
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Whether a revolution succeeds or fails people of great hearts will always be sacrificed to it.
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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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There are more fools in the world than there are people.
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I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.
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So we keep asking, over and over,Until a handful of earthStops our mouths -But is that an answer?
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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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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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Thought precedes action as lighting does thunder.
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The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...
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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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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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Freedom is a new religion, the religion of our time.
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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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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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Thought is invisible nature.
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We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged
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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 knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.
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