The eyes of spring, so azure, Are peeping from the ground; They are the darling violets, That I in nosegays bound. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The great pulsation of nature beats too in my breast, and when I carol aloud, I am answered by a thousand-fold echo.… — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The spring's already at the gate With looks my care beguiling; The country round appeareth straight A flower-garden smiling. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing. — Heinrich Heine Copy Share Image
I care little in the existence of a heaven or hell; self respect does not allow me to guide my acts with… — 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 Image
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
