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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.
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
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Sea
Blue
Lazily
Figures
Hovers
Shadowy
Atlantic
Sailing
Twilight
More quotes by Heinrich Heine
Experience is a good school. But the fees are high.
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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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Thought precedes action as lighting does thunder.
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Twelve Dancings are dancing, and taking no rest, And closely their hands together are press'd And soon as a dance has come to a close, Another begins, and each merrily goes.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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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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Laughter is wholesome. God is not so dull as some people make out. Did not He make the kitten to chase its tail.
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As the stars are the glory of the sky, so great men are the glory of their country, yea, of the whole earth. The hearts of great men are the stars of earth and doubtless when one looks down from above upon our planet, these hearts are seen to send forth, a silvery light just like the stars of heaven.
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Matrimony the high sea for which no compass has yet been invented.
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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.
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Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.
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Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
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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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Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
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Human misery is too great for men to die without faith.
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The men of the past had convictions, while we moderns have only opinions.
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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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Sweet May lies fresh before us, To life the young flowers leap, And through the Heaven's blue o'er us The rosy cloudlets sweep.
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If one has no heart, one cannot write for the masses.
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Those who begin by burning books will end by burning people.
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