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We know only that our entire existence is forced into new paths and disrupted, that new circumstances, new joys and new sorrows await us, and that the unknown has its uncanny attractions, alluring and at the same time anguishing.

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
Entire
Alluring
Sorrow
Uncanny
Circumstances
Sorrows
Joy
Paths
Path
Joys
Existence
Attraction
Disrupted
Time
Forced
Attractions
Unknown
Await

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A brainiac notices everything, an ignoramus comments about everything.
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Out of my great sorrows, I make little songs.
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First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how.
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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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Thought is invisible nature.
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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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What lies lurk in kisses.
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Religion cannot sink lower than when somehow it is raised to a state religion ... It becomes then an avowed mistress.
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Perfumes are the feelings of flowers.
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God will pardon me. It is His trade.
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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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Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
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Don't send a poet to London.
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The swan, like the soul of the poet, By the dull world is ill understood.
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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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There is one thing on earth more terrible than English music, and that is English painting.
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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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So we keep asking, over and over,Until a handful of earthStops our mouths -But is that an answer?
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Where words leave off, music begins.
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Matrimony the high sea for which no compass has yet been invented.
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