Heinrich Heine

(13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856 / Dusseldorf)

Heinrich Heine Poems

1. In The Underworld 6/26/2015
2. With A Copy Of 'The Rabbi Of Bachwach' 4/20/2010
3. The Voyage 4/20/2010
4. The North Sea -- Second Cycle 4/20/2010
5. Wenn Ich, Beseligt 4/20/2010
6. The North Sea -- First Cycle 4/20/2010
7. Night On The Shore 4/25/2012
8. This Mad Carnival Of Loving 4/20/2010
9. To Edom! 4/20/2010
10. The Hostile Brothers 4/20/2010
11. The Evening Gossip 4/20/2010
12. Morphine 4/20/2010
13. The Lore-Lei 4/20/2010
14. Unterm Weissen Baume 4/20/2010
15. Where? 4/20/2010
16. New Spring (1831) 4/20/2010
17. Zueignung 4/20/2010
18. The Tear 4/20/2010
19. The Fir-Tree And The Palm 4/20/2010
20. Still Ist Die Nacht 4/20/2010
21. My Darling, We Sat Together 4/20/2010
22. Mein Kind, Wir Waren Kinder 4/20/2010
23. Why The Roses Are So Pale 4/20/2010
24. The Old Dream Comes Again To Me 4/20/2010
25. Die Lorelei 11/22/2014
26. Ich Glaub Nicht An Den Himmel 4/20/2010
27. Mein Tag War Heiter 4/20/2010
28. Es Liegt Der Heisse Sommer 4/20/2010
29. Meergruß 4/20/2010
30. Gedächtnisfeier 4/20/2010
31. Ich Hatte Einst 4/20/2010
32. Der Scheidende 4/20/2010
33. Of Pearls And Stars 4/20/2010
34. Abenddämmerung 12/13/2011
35. Einst Sah Ich Viele 4/20/2010
36. Ein Fichtenbaum 4/20/2010
37. Als Ich, Auf Der Reise 4/20/2010
38. Ich Kann Es Nicht Vergessen 4/20/2010
39. Ich Weiss Nicht, Was Soll Es Bedeuten 4/20/2010
40. Altes Kaminstück 4/20/2010

Comments about Heinrich Heine

  • Ramesh Rai Ramesh Rai (12/13/2011 2:04:00 AM)

    Remembering the birth anniversary and salute the great poet on his birth day 13th December which is also mine too, for his great contribution for the human being.

    9 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
Best Poem of Heinrich Heine

A Palm-Tree

A single fir-tree, lonely,
on a northern mountain height,
sleeps in a white blanket,
draped in snow and ice.

His dreams are of a palm-tree,
who, far in eastern lands,
weeps, all alone and silent,
among the burning sands.

Read the full of A Palm-Tree

Death

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.

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