Quote

The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound.

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
Ground
Spring
Peeping
Eyes
Violets
Eye
Azure
Violet
Darling
Bound
Bounds

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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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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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Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.
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The propaganda of communism possesses a language which every people can understand. Its elements are simply hunger, envy, death.
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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.
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He is noble who both feels and acts nobly.
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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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There are more fools in the world than there are people.
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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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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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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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On the waves of the brook she dances by, The light, the lovely dragon-fly She dances here, she dances there, The shimmering, glimmering flutterer fair. And many a foolish young beetle's impressed By the blue gauze gown in which she is dressed They admire the enamel that decks her bright, And her elegant waist so slim and slight.
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Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
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He who fights with priests may make up his mind to have his poor good name torn and befouled by the most infamous lies and the most cutting slanders.
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The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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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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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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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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Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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