The minnesongs of the greatest masters, nevertheless, whose treasures were unearthed after Schiller's time, enable us to form a true and vivid estimate of the regard in which women were held when this poetry flourished. Wolfram von Eschenbach sings the sorrows of unrequited love: "Would I that lofty spirit melt Of that proud dame that dwells so high, Kind heaven must aid me, or unfelt By her will be its agony. Joy in my soul no place can find: As well might I a suitor be To thunderbolts, as hope her mind Will turn in softer mood to me. "Those cheeks are beautiful, are bright As the red rose with dewdrops grac'd; And faultless is the lovely light Of those dear eyes, that, on me plac'd, Pierce to my very heart, and fill My soul with love's consuming fires, While passion burns and reigns at will; So deep a love that fair inspires! "But joy upon her beauteous form Attends, her hues so bright to shed O'er those red lips, before whose warm And beaming smile all care is fled. She is to me all light and joy, I faint, I die, before her frown; Even Venus, liv'd she yet on earth, A fairer goddess here must own." The longing for a distant, hard-hearted, beloved lady is expressed by Heinrich von Morungen in tones worthy of the best traditions of the Greek lyric poets: "My lady dearly loves a pretty bird, That sings and echoes back her gentle tone; Were I, too, near her, never should be heard A songster's note more pleasant than my own; Sweeter than sweetest nightingale I'd sing. For thee, my lady fair, This yoke of love I bear, Deign thou to comfort me and ease my sorrowing. "Were but the troubles of my heart by her Regarded, I would triumph in my pain; But her proud heart stands firmly, and the stir Of passionate grief o'ercomes not her disdain. Yet, yet I do remember how before My eyes she stood, and spoke, And on her gentle look My earnest gaze was fix'd; O were it so once more!" Another Minnesinger, Kristan von Hamle, is an exponent of romantic love: "Would that the meadow could speak! And then would it truly declare How happy was yesterday, When my lady was there: When she pluck'd its flowers, and gently prest Her lovely feet on its verdant breast. Meadow! what transport was thine, When my lady walked across thee; And her white hands pluck'd the flowers; Those beautiful flowers that emboss thee I Oh, suffer me, then, thou bright green sod, To set my feet where my lady trod!" And again, Master Hadlaub, the last of the line of true Minnesingers, at the end of the thirteenth century: