The weather-cock on the church spire, though made of iron, would soon be broken by the storm-wind if it did not understand the noble art of turning to every wind. – Heinrich Heine
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In the marvellous month of May
when all the buds were bursting,
then in my heart did
love arise.
In the marvellous month of May
when all the birds were singing,
then did I reveal to her
my yearning and longing. – Heinrich Heine
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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. – Heinrich Heine
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