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Never let a fool kiss you, or a kiss fool you. Oh, what lies there are in kisses!
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
Kisses
Kiss
Kissing
Lies
Fool
Lying
Never
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Glow-worms on the ground are moving, As if in the torch-dance circling.
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I do not know if she was virtuous, but she was ugly, and with a woman that is half the battle.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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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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Every age thinks its battle the most important of all.
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Oh fair, oh sweet and holy as dew at morning tide, I gaze on thee, and yearnings, sad in my bosom hide.
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Wild, dark times are rumbling toward us, and the prophet who wishes to write a new apocalypse will have to invent entirely new beasts, and beasts so terrible that the ancient animal symbols of St. John will seem like cooing doves and cupids in comparison.
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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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And over the pond are sailing Two swans all white as snow Sweet voices mysteriously wailing Pierce through me as onward they go. They sail along, and a ringing Sweet melody rises on high And when the swans begin singing, They presently must die.
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The beauteous dragonfly's dancing By the waves of the rivulet glancing She dances here and she dances there, The glimmering, glittering flutterer fair. Full many a beetle with loud applause Admires her dress of azure gauze, Admires her body's bright splendour, And also her figure so slender...
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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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You cannot feed the hungry on statistics.
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We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged
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Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
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Where words leave off, music begins.
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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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He that marries is like the dogs who was married to the Adriatic. He knows not what there is in that which he marries mayhap treasures and pearls, mayhap monsters and tempests, await him.
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