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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.

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
Little
Great
Make
Sorrows
Sorrow
Songs
Song
Littles

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Ask me not what I have, but what I am.
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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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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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In dark ages people are best guided by religion, as in a pitch-black night a blind man is the best guide he knows the roads and paths better than a man who can see. When daylight comes, however, it is foolish to use blind, old men as guides.
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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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There is no Sixth Commandment in art. The poet is entitled to lay his hands on whatever material he finds necessary for his work.
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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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The foolish race of mankind are swarming below in the night they shriek and rage and quarrel - and all of them are right.
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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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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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My heart resembles the ocean has storm, and ebb and flow and many a beautiful pearl lies hid in its depths below.
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So we keep asking, over and over,Until a handful of earthStops our mouths -But is that an answer?
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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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Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!
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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 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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Life is all too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully bewildered it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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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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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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