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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.

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
Sun
Dreamily
Flower
Resplendent
Head
Sunken
Waiting
Lotuses
Night
Lotus
Light
Waits
Sadly
Troubled

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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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Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.
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I consider it a degradation and a stain on my honor to submit to baptism in order to qualify myself for state employment in Prussia.
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First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how.
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When'er into thine eyes I see, All pain and sorrow fly from me. [Ger., Wenn ich in deine Augen sch' So schwindet all' mein Leid und Weh.]
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All our contemporary philosophers perhaps without knowing it are looking through eyeglasses that Baruch Spinoza polished. Spinoza was a philosopher who earned his livelihood by grinding lenses.
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In dark ages people are best guided by religion, as in a pitch-black night a blind man is the best guide he knows the roads and paths better than a man who can see. When daylight comes, however, it is foolish to use blind, old men as guides.
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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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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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The gazelles so gentle and clever Skip lightly in frolicsome mood.
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Ask me not what I have, but what I am.
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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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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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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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Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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Poverty sits by the cradle of all our great men and rocks all of them to manhood.
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God will forgive me. It's his job.
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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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If thou lookest on the lime-leaf, Thou a heart's form will discover Therefore are the lindens ever Chosen seats of each fond lover.
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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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