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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.

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
Grass
Nightingales
Appear
Violet
Firsts
Blossom
First
Burst
Life
Sang
Apple
Sprang
Apples
Violets
Melody
Nightingale

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Where words leave off, music begins.
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But a day must come when the fire of youth will be quenched in my veins, when winter will dwell in my heart, when his snow flakes will whiten my locks, and his mists will dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their lonely grave, and I alone will remain like a solitary stalk forgotten by the reaper.
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Freedom is a new religion, the religion of our time.
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God will pardon: That's His business.
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We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
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The men of the past had convictions, while we moderns have only opinions.
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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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The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.
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Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.
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Genius: 1. to believe your own thought. To believe that what is true for you is ultimately true. 2. a sledgehammer. 3. the fruit of labour and thought. 4. soul. 5. the ability to put into effect what is in your mind. 6. something one can become.
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My heart resembles the ocean has storm, and ebb and flow and many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.
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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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Reason exercises merely the function of preserving order, is, so to say, the police in the region of art. In life it is mostly a cold arithmetician summing up our follies.
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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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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 arrow belongs not to the archer when it has once left the bow the word no longer belongs to the speaker when it has once passed his lips, especially when it has been multiplied by the press.
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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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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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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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