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Freedom is a new religion, the religion of our time.
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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Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Freedom
Religion
Time
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Where words leave off, music begins.
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All I really want is enough to live on, a little house in the country... and a tree in the garden with seven of my enemies hanging in it.
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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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I do not know the meaning of my sadness there is an old fairy tale that I cannot get out of my mind.
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Poverty sits by the cradle of all our great men and rocks all of them to manhood.
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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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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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Money is the god of our time, and Rothschild is his prophet.
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Ask me not what I have, but what I am.
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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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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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Everywhere that a great soul gives utterance to its thoughts, there also is a Golgotha.
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You talk of our having an idea we do not have an idea. The idea has us, and martyrs us, and scourges us, and drives us into the arena to fight and die for it, whether we want to or not.
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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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And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
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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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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
Heinrich Heine
