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Friedrich Schiller - The Conflict
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No! I this conflict longer will not wage,
  The conflict duty claims—the giant task;—
Thy spells, O virtue, never can assuage
  The heart`s wild fire—this offering do not ask

True, I have sworn—a solemn vow have sworn,
  That I myself will curb the self within;
Yet take thy wreath, no more it shall be worn—
  Take back thy wreath, and leave me free to sin.

Rent be the contract I with thee once made;—
  She loves me, loves me—forfeit be the crown!
Blessed he who, lulled in rapture`s dreamy shade,
  Glides, as I glide, the deep fall gladly down.

She sees the worm that my youth`s bloom decays,
  She sees my spring-time wasted as it flees;
And, marvelling at the rigor that gainsays
  The heart`s sweet impulse, my reward decrees.

Distrust this angel purity, fair soul!
  It is to guilt thy pity armeth me;
Could being lavish its unmeasured whole,
  It ne`er could give a gift to rival thee!

Thee—the dear guilt I ever seek to shun,
  O tyranny of fate, O wild desires!
My virtue`s only crown can but be won
  In that last breath—when virtue`s self expires!
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