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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
Waiting
Lotuses
Night
Lotus
Light
Waits
Sadly
Troubled
Sun
Dreamily
Flower
Resplendent
Head
Sunken
More quotes by Heinrich Heine
Be entirely tolerant or not at all follow the good path or the evil one. To stand at the crossroads requires more strength than you possess.
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He only profits from praise who values criticism.
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If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world.
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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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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 stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.
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He that marries is like the dogs who was married to the Adriatic. He knows not what there is in that which he marries mayhap treasures and pearls, mayhap monsters and tempests, await him.
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Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!
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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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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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Reform Judaism is like mock turtle soup-turtle soup without the turtle
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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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Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets sprang.
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Those who begin by burning books will end by burning people.
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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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You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.
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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
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