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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.

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
Tree
Height
Sleep
Cast
Garment
White
Round
Sleeps
Casts
Drift
Rounds
Northern
Snow
Garments
Lonely
Barren
Standing
Ice

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The gazelles so gentle and clever Skip lightly in frolicsome mood.
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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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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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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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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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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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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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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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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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It is an ancient story Yet is it ever new.
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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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Don't send a poet to London.
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Music is a strange thing. I would almost say it is a miracle. For it stands halfway between thought and phenomenon, between spirit and matter.
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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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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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We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged
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I have never seen an ass who talked like a human being, but I have met many human beings who talked like asses.
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No talent, but yet a character. [Ger., Kein talent, doch ein Charakter.]
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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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