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So we keep asking, over and over,Until a handful of earthStops our mouths -But is that an answer?
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
Mouths
Asking
Answer
Answers
Keep
Handful
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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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Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid
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A lonely fir-tree is standing On a northern barren height It sleeps, and the ice and snow-drift Cast round it a garment of white.
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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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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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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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The violets prattle and titter, And gaze on the stars high above.
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True eloquence consists in saying all that is necessary, and nothing but what is necessary.
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Jews who long have drifted from the faith of their fathers... are stirred in their inmost parts when the old, familiar Passover sounds chance to fall upon their ears.
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The deepest truth blooms only from the deepest love.
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The men of action are, after all, only the unconscious instruments of the men of thought.
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In vain would I seek to discover Why sad and mournful am I, My thoughts without ceasing brood over A tale of the time gone by.
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God will pardon: That's His business.
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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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The stones here speak to me, and I know their mute language. Also, they seem deeply to feel what I think. So a broken column of the old Roman times, an old tower of Lombardy, a weather- beaten Gothic piece of a pillar understands me well. But I am a ruin myself, wandering among ruins.
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The negro king desired to be portrayed as white. But do not laugh at the poor African for every man is but another negro king, and would like to appear in a color different from that with which Fate has bedaubed him.
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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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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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The propaganda of communism possesses a language which every people can understand. Its elements are simply hunger, envy, death.
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