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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.
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
Already
Smiling
Care
Gates
Looks
Round
Country
Rounds
Straight
Garden
Beguiling
Spring
Springtime
Flower
Gate
More quotes by Heinrich Heine
Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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There is only one writer in whom I find something that reminds me of the directness of style which is found in the Bible. It is Shakespeare.
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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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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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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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Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.
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Talking and eloquence are not the same: to speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
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Religion cannot sink lower than when somehow it is raised to a state religion ... It becomes then an avowed mistress.
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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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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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In earlier religions the spirit of the time was expressed through the individual and confirmed by miracles. In modern religions the spirit is expressed through the many and confirmed by reason.
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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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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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Thought is invisible nature.
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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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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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The same fact that Boccaccio offers in support of religion might be adduced in behalf of a republic: It exists in spite of its ministers.
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Our sweetest hopes rise blooming. And then again are gone, They bloom and fade alternate, And so it goes rolling on. I know it, and it troubles My life, my love, my rest, My heart is wise and witty, And it bleeds within my breast.
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The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...
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You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.
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