The Danaides.

Into the sieve we've been pouring for years,
o'er the stone we've been brooding;
But the stone never warms, nor does the sieve ever fill.

Friedrich Schiller

Friedrich Schiller was a renowned German poet, philosopher, physician, historian, and playwright. Born on November 10, 1759, in Marbach am Neckar, and passing away on May 9, 1805, in Weimar, Schiller is considered one of the most important figures in German literature. His works, including 'Ode to Joy' and 'William Tell', have left a lasting impact on Western literature and thought.

Friedrich Schiller

The Agreement.

Friedrich Schiller, Simple Poetry

Evening.

Friedrich Schiller, Simple Poetry

Epitaph On A Certain Physiognomist.

Friedrich Schiller, Simple Poetry

The Present Generation.

Friedrich Schiller, Simple Poetry

English

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The Sower.

Sure of the spring that warms them into birth,
The golden seeds thou trustest to the earth;
And dost thou doubt the eternal spring sublime,
For deeds the seeds which wisdom sows in time.

Friedrich Schiller

The Philosophers.

The principle by which each thing
Toward strength and shape first tended,
The pulley whereon Zeus the ring
Of earth, that loosely used to swing,
With cautiousness suspended,
he is a clever man, I vow,
Who its real name can tell me now,
Unless to help him I consent
'Tis: ten and twelve are different!

Fire burns, 'tis chilly when it snows,
Man always is two-footed,
The sun across the heavens goes,
This, he who naught of logic knows
Finds to his reason suited.
Yet he who metaphysics learns,
Knows that naught freezes when it burns
Knows that what's wet is never dry,
And that what's bright attracts the eye.

Old Homer sings his noble lays,
The hero goes through dangers;
The brave man duty's call obeys,
And did so, even in the day...

Friedrich Schiller

The Rivers.

        RHINE.

True, as becometh a Switzer, I watch over Germany's borders;
But the light-footed Gaul jumps o'er the suffering stream.


    RHINE AND MOSELLE.

Many a year have I clasped in my arms the Lorrainian maiden;
But our union as yet ne'er has been blest with a son.


    DANUBE IN    

Round me are dwelling the falcon-eyed race, the Phaeacian people;
Sunday with them never ends; ceaselessly moves round the spit.


    MAIN.

Ay, it is true that my castles are crumbling; yet, to my comfort,
Have I for centuries past seen my old race still endure.


    SAALE.

Short is my course, during which I salute many princes and nations;
Yet the princes are good ay! and the nations are free.

Friedrich Schiller

Elysium.

Past the despairing wail
And the bright banquets of the Elysian vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.
And joy to-day and joy to-morrow,
But wafts the airy soul aloft;
The very name is lost to sorrow,
And pain is rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.

Here the pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb,
And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim,
The load he shall bear never more;

Friedrich Schiller

The Epic Hexameter.

Giddily onward it bears thee with resistless impetuous billows;
Naught but the ocean and air seest thou before or behind.

Friedrich Schiller

The Secret.

She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;
Too many listeners were nigh;
And yet my timid glance read plainly
The language of her speaking eye.
Thy silent glades my footstep presses,
Thou fair and leaf-embosomed grove!
Conceal within thy green recesses
From mortal eye our sacred love!

Afar with strange discordant noises,
The busy day is echoing;
And 'mid the hollow hum of voices,
I hear the heavy hammer ring.
'Tis thus that man, with toil ne'er ending
Extorts from heaven his daily bread;
Yet oft unseen the Gods are sending
The gifts of fortune on his head!

Oh, let mankind discover never
How true love fills with bliss our hearts
They would but crush our joy forever,
For joy to them no glow imparts.
Thou ne'er wilt from the world...

Friedrich Schiller