“I once saw many flowers blooming Upon my way, in indolence I scorned to pick them in my going And passed in… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The fountain of love is the rose and the lily, the sun and the dove. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don; And through the blue heavens above us The very clouds… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The nightingale appear'd the first, And as her melody she sang, The apple into blossom burst, To life the grass and violets… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, And flirted around all day; While round him in turn with her golden caress, Soft… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Great genius takes shape by contact with another great genius, but, less by assimilation than by friction. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Lo, sleep is good, better is death--in sooth The best of all were never to be born. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Ordinarily he was insane, but he had lucid moments when he was merely stupid — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Every age has its problem, by solving which humanity is helped forward. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
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… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
I am no longer a divine biped. I am no longer the freest German after Goethe, as Ruge named me in healthier days. I… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
First, I thought, almost despairing, This must crush my spirit now; Yet I bore it, and am bearing- Only do not ask me how. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share
Nothing is more futile than theorizing about music. No doubt there are laws, mathematically strict laws, but these laws are not music; they are… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
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. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
“Still is the night, it quiets the streets down, In that window my love would appear; She's long since gone away from this town,… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
