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The air grows cool and darkles, The Rhine flows calmly on The mountain summit sparkles In the light of the setting sun.
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
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Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Light
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Setting
Cool
Rhine
Flow
Sparkles
Mountain
Calmly
Sun
Sparkle
Air
Summit
Grows
Flows
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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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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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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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Human misery is too great for men to die without faith.
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He only profits from praise who values criticism.
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Newness hath an evanescent beauty.
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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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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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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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The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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Whether a revolution succeeds or fails people of great hearts will always be sacrificed to it.
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God will pardon me. It is His trade.
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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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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 devil take these people and their language! They take a dozen monosyllabic words in their jaws, chew them, crunch them and spit them out again, and call that speaking. Fortunately they are by nature fairly silent, and although they gaze at us open-mouthed, they spare us long conversations.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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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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