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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
Publicist
Writer
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 butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, And flirted around all day While round him in turn with her golden caress, Soft fluttered the sun's warm ray.... I know not with whom the rose was in love, But I know that I loved them all. The butterfly, rose, and the sun's bright ray, The star and the bird's sweet call.
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Human misery is too great for men to die without faith.
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There are more fools in the world than there are people.
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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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You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.
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He who fears to venture as far as his heart urges and his reason permits, is a coward he who ventures further than he intended to go, is a slave.
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Where books are burned in the end people will be burned too.
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Thought is invisible nature.
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Tell me who first did kisses suggest? It was a mouth all glowing and blest It kissed and it thought of nothing beside. The fair month of May was then in its pride, The flowers were all from the earth fast springing, The sun was laughing, the birds were singing.
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We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.
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I consider it a degradation and a stain on my honor to submit to baptism in order to qualify myself for state employment in Prussia.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle.
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There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
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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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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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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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Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.
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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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Where words leave off, music begins.
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