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Best Famous Friedrich Von Schiller Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Friedrich Von Schiller poems. This is a select list of the best famous Friedrich Von Schiller poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Friedrich Von Schiller poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Friedrich von Schiller poems.

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Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

To Minna

 Do I dream? can I trust to my eye?
My sight sure some vapor must cover?
Or, there, did my Minna pass by--
My Minna--and knew not her lover?
On the arm of the coxcomb she crossed,
Well the fan might its zephyr bestow;
Herself in her vanity lost,
That wanton my Minna?--Ah, no!

In the gifts of my love she was dressed,
My plumes o'er her summer hat quiver;
The ribbons that flaunt in her breast
Might bid her--remember the giver!
And still do they bloom on thy bosom,
The flowerets I gathered for thee!
Still as fresh is the leaf of each blossom,
'Tis the heart that has faded from me!

Go and take, then, the incense they tender;
Go, the one that adored thee forget!
Go, thy charms to the feigner surrender,
In my scorn is my comforter yet!
Go, for thee with what trust and belief
There beat not ignobly a heart
That has strength yet to strive with the grief
To have worshipped the trifler thou art!

Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed--
Thy beauty--shame, Minna, to thee!
To-morrow its glory will fade,
And its roses all withered will be!
The swallows that swarm in the sun
Will fly when the north winds awaken,
The false ones thine autumn will shun,
For whom thou the true hast forsaken!

'Mid the wrecks of the charms in December,
I see thee alone in decay,
And each spring shall but bid thee remember
How brief for thyself was the May!
Then they who so wantonly flock
To the rapture thy kiss can impart,
Shall scoff at thy winter, and mock
Thy beauty as wrecked as thy heart!

Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed--
Thy beauty--shame, Minna, to thee
To-morrow its glory will fade--
And its roses all withered will be!
O, what scorn for thy desolate years
Shall I feel!--God forbid it in me!
How bitter will then be the tears
Shed, Minna, O Minna, for thee!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 Oh thou degenerate child of the great and glorious mother,
Who with the Romans' strong might couplest the Tyrians' deceit!
But those ever governed with vigor the earth they had conquered,--
These instructed the world that they with cunning had won.
Say! what renown does history grant thee? Thou, Roman-like, gained'st That with the steel, which with gold, Tyrian-like, then thou didst rule!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Friend And Foe

 Dearly I love a friend; yet a foe I may turn to my profit;
Friends show me that which I can; foes teach me that which I should.

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Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

A Peculiar Ideal

 What thou thinkest, belongs to all; what thou feelest, is thine only.
Wouldst thou make him thine own, feel thou the God whom thou thinkest!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Beauteous Individuality

 Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one,--art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever; If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Fortune And Wisdom

 Enraged against a quondam friend,
To Wisdom once proud Fortune said
"I'll give thee treasures without end,
If thou wilt be my friend instead.
" "My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me niggard all the while.
" "Come, sister, let us friendship vow! So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough? Here is enough I'm sure for both!" Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: "There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!"

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Political Precept

 All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don't carry this precept
On too far,--be content, all that is right to effect.
It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect; False zeal always would find finished perfection at once.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 Scarce has the fever so chilly of Gallomania departed,
When a more burning attack in Grecomania breaks out.
Greekism,--what did it mean?--'Twas harmony, reason, and clearness! Patience,--good gentlemen, pray, ere ye of Greekism speak! 'Tis for an excellent cause ye are fighting, and all that I ask for Is that with reason it ne'er may be a laughing-stock made.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 E'en by the hand of the wicked can truth be working with vigor;
But the vessel is filled by what is beauteous alone.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Glove - A Tale

 Before his lion-court,
Impatient for the sport,
King Francis sat one day;
The peers of his realm sat around,
And in balcony high from the ground
Sat the ladies in beauteous array.
And when with his finger he beckoned, The gate opened wide in a second,-- And in, with deliberate tread, Enters a lion dread, And looks around Yet utters no sound; Then long he yawns And shakes his mane, And, stretching each limb, Down lies he again.
Again signs the king,-- The next gate open flies, And, lo! with a wild spring, A tiger out hies.
When the lion he sees, loudly roars he about, And a terrible circle his tail traces out.
Protruding his tongue, past the lion he walks, And, snarling with rage, round him warily stalks: Then, growling anew, On one side lies down too.
Again signs the king,-- And two gates open fly, And, lo! with one spring, Two leopards out hie.
On the tiger they rush, for the fight nothing loth, But he with his paws seizes hold of them both.
And the lion, with roaring, gets up,--then all's still; The fierce beasts stalk around, madly thirsting to kill.
From the balcony raised high above A fair hand lets fall down a glove Into the lists, where 'tis seen The lion and tiger between.
To the knight, Sir Delorges, in tone of jest, Then speaks young Cunigund fair; "Sir Knight, if the love that thou feel'st in thy breast Is as warm as thou'rt wont at each moment to swear, Pick up, I pray thee, the glove that lies there!" And the knight, in a moment, with dauntless tread, Jumps into the lists, nor seeks to linger, And, from out the midst of those monsters dread, Picks up the glove with a daring finger.
And the knights and ladies of high degree With wonder and horror the action see, While he quietly brings in his hand the glove, The praise of his courage each mouth employs; Meanwhile, with a tender look of love, The promise to him of coming joys, Fair Cunigund welcomes him back to his place.
But he threw the glove point-blank in her face: "Lady, no thanks from thee I'll receive!" And that selfsame hour he took his leave.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Present Generation

 Was it always as now? This race I truly can't fathom.
Nothing is young but old age; youth, alas! only is old.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Knights Of St. John

 Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherub's sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far, When by the sick man's bed ye stood, O lions of the war! When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness, The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness-- Religion of the cross, thou blend'st, as in a single flower, The twofold branches of the palm--humility and power.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Moral Force

 If thou feelest not the beautiful, still thou with reason canst will it;
And as a spirit canst do, that which as man thou canst not.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

The Playing Infant

 Play on thy mother's bosom, babe, for in that holy isle
The error cannot find thee yet, the grieving, nor the guile;
Held in thy mother's arms above life's dark and troubled wave,
Thou lookest with thy fearless smile upon the floating grave.
Play, loveliest innocence!--Thee yet Arcadia circles round, A charmed power for thee has set the lists of fairy ground; Each gleesome impulse Nature now can sanction and befriend, Nor to that willing heart as yet the duty and the end.
Play, for the haggard labor soon will come to seize its prey.
Alas! when duty grows thy law, enjoyment fades away!

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |

Thekla - A Spirit Voice

 Whither was it that my spirit wended
When from thee my fleeting shadow moved?
Is not now each earthly conflict ended?
Say,--have I not lived,--have I not loved?

Art thou for the nightingales inquiring
Who entranced thee in the early year
With their melody so joy-inspiring?
Only whilst they loved they lingered here.
Is the lost one lost to me forever? Trust me, with him joyfully I stray There, where naught united souls can sever, And where every tear is wiped away.
And thou, too, wilt find us in yon heaven, When thy love with our love can compare; There my father dwells, his sins forgiven,-- Murder foul can never reach him there.
And he feels that him no vision cheated When he gazed upon the stars on high; For as each one metes, to him 'tis meted; Who believes it, hath the Holy nigh.
Faith is kept in those blest regions yonder With the feelings true that ne'er decay.
Venture thou to dream, then, and to wander Noblest thoughts oft lie in childlike play.