Ironic in his expression and jaded with love, Heine's poems are predictable and platitudinous in their subjects and denouément - The Sea everywhere, the latent Lady somewhere, and the lamenting Man mourning; conceits reappear numbingly, a proper emotion is scarcely felt and the imagery is hardly recollected afterwards.
Heine shines most brightly in his novellas, where he takes the reader on his semi-autobiographical journeys. There he evokes the wondrous Nature to full bloom where we can understand birds twitterings and where the rationalistic worldview is superseded by the wondrous, imaginative and mythological nature. The selfsame tree, wind and mountain imageries reappear there as in his poems, but they are much more welcome in there, in a novella form, than as a separately read poem. Nor does Heine's lamentable pessimism ever reach maturity in his poems - it's a withered flower desperately left for display. His poems lack proper feeling - and beside feeling, his novellas are also laden with heavy meaning and you get to see Heine's opinionated side in full bloom. Though preceding it, his reference-filled text ( The Harz Journey, The Book of Le Grand, The Town of Lucca) is at times comparable to that of Huysmans' À rebours.
The little boy seemed to be on the best of terms with the flowers; he greeted them as friends, and they seemed to rustle in reply to his greeting. He whistled like a finch, the other birds all around answered by twittering, and before I knew what was happening, he had scurried off with his bare feet and his bundle of twigs into the thick of the forest. ‘children are younger than we are,’ I thought, ‘and can still remember how they too used to be trees or birds, and understand what these are saying; but we are already old, and our heads are too full of worries, jurisprudence, and bad verses.’
The Harz Journey