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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-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
Publicist
Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Age
Song
Much
Every
Nightingales
Time
Lyrical
Spring
Songs
Poetry

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Where words leave off, music begins.
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While we are indifferent to our good qualities, we keep on deceiving ourselves in regard to our faults, until we come to look on them as virtues.
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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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But a day must come when the fire of youth will be quenched in my veins, when winter will dwell in my heart, when his snow flakes will whiten my locks, and his mists will dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their lonely grave, and I alone will remain like a solitary stalk forgotten by the reaper.
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The arrow belongs not to the archer when it has once left the bow the word no longer belongs to the speaker when it has once passed his lips, especially when it has been multiplied by the press.
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Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.
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What lies lurk in kisses.
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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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As the stars are the glory of the sky, so great men are the glory of their country, yea, of the whole earth. The hearts of great men are the stars of earth and doubtless when one looks down from above upon our planet, these hearts are seen to send forth, a silvery light just like the stars of heaven.
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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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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 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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Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions.
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It is a common phenomenon that just the prettiest girls find it so difficult to get a man.
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Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means.
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Write . . . write . . . pencil . . . paper.
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The cloudlets are lazily sailing O'er the blue Atlantic sea And mid the twilight there hovers A shadowy figure o'er me.
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It must require an inordinate share of vanity and presumption, too, after enjoying so much that is good and beautiful on earth, to ask the Lord for immortality in addition to it all.
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He is noble who both feels and acts nobly.
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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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