Quote

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
Never
Kisses
Kiss
Kissing
Lies
Fool
Lying

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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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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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Whether a revolution succeeds or fails people of great hearts will always be sacrificed to it.
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Christ rode on an ass, but now asses ride on Christ.
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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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If thou lookest on the lime-leaf, Thou a heart's form will discover Therefore are the lindens ever Chosen seats of each fond lover.
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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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Tell me who first did kisses suggest? It was a mouth all glowing and blest It kissed and it thought of nothing beside. The fair month of May was then in its pride, The flowers were all from the earth fast springing, The sun was laughing, the birds were singing.
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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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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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Wherever books are burned, human beings are destined to be burned too.
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Whenever books are burned, men also in the end are burned.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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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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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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No talent, but yet a character. [Ger., Kein talent, doch ein Charakter.]
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If the Romans had been obliged to learn Latin, they would never have found time to conquer the world.
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Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.
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