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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.
Heinrich Heine
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Heinrich Heine
Age: 58 †
Born: 1797
Born: December 13
Died: 1856
Died: February 17
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Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
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More quotes by Heinrich Heine
I fell asleep reading a dull book and dreamed I kept on reading, so I awoke from sheer boredom.
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Don't send a poet to London.
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In action, the English have the advantage enjoyed by free men always entitled to free discussion: of having a ready judgment on every question. We Germans, on the other hand, are always thinking. We think so much that we never form a judgment.
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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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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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True eloquence consists in saying all that is necessary, and nothing but what is necessary.
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I do not know the meaning of my sadness there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.
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Atheism is the last word of theism
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It is a common phenomenon that just the prettiest girls find it so difficult to get a man.
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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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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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While we are indifferent to our good qualities, we keep on deceiving ourselves in regard to our faults, until we come to look on them as virtues.
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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.
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On the waves of the brook she dances by, The light, the lovely dragon-fly She dances here, she dances there, The shimmering, glimmering flutterer fair. And many a foolish young beetle's impressed By the blue gauze gown in which she is dressed They admire the enamel that decks her bright, And her elegant waist so slim and slight.
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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers, and as the human heart, imagining itself alone and unwatched, feels most deeply in the night-time, so seems it as if the flowers, in musing modesty, await the mantling eventide ere they give themselves up wholly to feeling...
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Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
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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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The propaganda of communism possesses a language which every people can understand. Its elements are simply hunger, envy, death.
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