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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
Publicist
Writer
Dusseldorf
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine
Heinrich Heine
Christian Heine
Christian Johann Heinrich Harry Heine
Kiss
Kissing
Lies
Fool
Lying
Never
Kisses

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In politics, as in life, we must above all things wish only for the attainable.
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Our sweetest hopes rise blooming. And then again are gone, They bloom and fade alternate, And so it goes rolling on. I know it, and it troubles My life, my love, my rest, My heart is wise and witty, And it bleeds within my breast.
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What lies lurk in kisses.
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Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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Ask me not what I have, but what I am.
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Laughter is wholesome. God is not so dull as some people make out. Did not He make the kitten to chase its tail.
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Genius: 1. to believe your own thought. To believe that what is true for you is ultimately true. 2. a sledgehammer. 3. the fruit of labour and thought. 4. soul. 5. the ability to put into effect what is in your mind. 6. something one can become.
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I fell asleep reading a dull book and dreamed I kept on reading, so I awoke from sheer boredom.
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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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Pretty women without religion are like flowers without perfume.
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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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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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No talent, but yet a character. [Ger., Kein talent, doch ein Charakter.]
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God will pardon me. It is His trade.
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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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Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid
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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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Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.
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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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