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"Seit jenem Tage wo ich zum ersten Male in deinen schönen Augen geblickt habe, habe ich dich grenzenlos geliebt." "I'm sorry I can understand nothing but English," I say, turning to see if I can catch a glimpse of Mrs. Steele. "Señorita!" The Peruvian holds my finger tips fast to the rail with a hand that trembles a little.
This is the perfect application, nay, interpretation of Goethe's "Was du ererbt von deinen V�tern hast Erwirb es um es zu besitzen."
The object of the investigation was, in general words, to prepare for an explanation of the questions raised; and even if the results had turned out other than they have, it would have sufficed me to have given an impulse to labors which will testify to the truth of the dead master's words: "Was Du ererbt von deinen Vätern hast, Erwirb es, um es zu besitzen."
This is the perfect application, nay, the interpretation, of Goethe's advice to earn our inheritance for ourselves so that we may really possess it: Was due ererbt von deinen Välern hast, Erwirb es, um es zu besitzen. The man who thinks for himself, forms his own opinions and learns the authorities for them only later on, when they serve but to strengthen his belief in them and in himself.
"Mit deinen blauen Augen," he hummed, keeping time with his hands, but at this point Miss Clara came across the room, followed by her sister. "Mrs. Tenaker," she said, laughing, "asked me to ask you, Mr. Lenox, if you wouldn't please sing something they could understand." "I have a song I should like to hear you sing," said Miss Verjoos.
"O Hendel, dessen Ruhm vom /Sued/ zum /Norden/ reicht, Vernimm den /Paean/ der zu deinen Ohren steigt. Du baeckst was /Gallien/ und /Britten/ emsig suchen, Mit /schoepfrischen Genie, originelle/ Kuchen. Des Kaffee's /Ocean/, der sich vor dir ergiesst, Ist suessev als der Saft der vom /Hymettus/ fliesst.
Mit deinen schwarzbraunen Augen Siehst du mich forschend an: "Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir, Du fremder, kranker Mann!" Who does not love the poet Heine melodious, beautiful, bitter soul? Is there any other poet who can mingle, in one sentence, savage irony and tenderness that brings tears into the eyes? Who can tell the secret of his flower-like verses?
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