Poems about Switzerland often celebrate its breathtaking landscapes, peaceful atmosphere, and rich cultural heritage. From the snow-covered peaks of the Swiss Alps to the calm waters of Lake Geneva, poets are inspired by the country’s natural beauty and serene rhythm of life.
- One of the most famous writers connected to Switzerland is Lord Byron, who wrote “The Prisoner of Chillon” after visiting Chillon Castle. His poem captures both the dramatic scenery and deep emotional intensity of the region. Similarly, Percy Bysshe Shelley found inspiration in Swiss landscapes, reflecting themes of nature, freedom, and the sublime.
The Swiss Alps
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
YESTERDAY brown was still thy head, as the locks of my loved one,
Whose sweet image so dear silently beckons afar.
Silver-grey is the early snow to-day on thy summit,
Through the tempestuous night streaming fast over thy brow.
Youth, alas, throughout life as closely to age is united
As, in some changeable dream, yesterday blends with to-day.
The Swiss Just Do Whatever
By Sharon Mesmer
The Swiss just do whatever
like masturbating their doink-doinks
deep in rural France
in the shadow of Mont Blanc.
Heavy, dependable
and prepared for whatever
the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes
as larder
King Hussein and President Fabio,
always just about to touch each other
on their devolved sparkle-offs
and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages.
Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh
they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like
six packs of shit-covered reindeer
knock-knocking like a bummer.
Glitter is the Swiss Army knife
of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous
emotions: the part just before
the paranoid cheese-maker says,
“Whatever you do in Palm Springs,
don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss
mixture of very early skunk and the robotic
sadness of women’s mold
heavy, greasy, dense and low, like
lethargic sea-green gardens
with a buzz overpowering, like
modern outdoor inbreeding.
You know you’re Swiss when,
when foreign visitors ask to see your
chocolate factory, you answer,
“Why don’t you and Hannibal Lecter
just kick out the jams?”
’Cause you know you got the chamber,
the chair,
and Fear Factor.
Switzerland
Sachin A Naik
Golden crown of Alps,
Proudly wears Swiss,
Taking Jura into its lap,
Lovingly play with it Swiss.
In the aqua-mirror of Lucerne,
Watching its image Swiss,
On the Lion memorial of brave soldiers,
Weeping proudly Swiss.
With the touch of Rhine Falls,
Getting very happy Swiss,
With the extreme cold of Mount Titlis,
Freezing and enjoying Swiss,
Green Mountains, evergreen forests, Seeing greenary everywhere,
Getting delighted Swiss,
Whistling rivers, playful streams,
Mirror like beauty Swiss.
Song of The Battle of Morgarten
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The wine-month* shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime,
Than the vintage-music rung—
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave:
—'Twas the tread of steel-girt men!
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war,
With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms,
Flash'd helmets to the day,
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like pine-boughs in their play.
In Hasli's wilds there was gleaming steel,
As the host of the Austrian pass'd:
And the Shreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion's blast.
Up midst the Righi snows,
The stormy march was heard,
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader's gathering word.
But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon'd streamers, and lances tail,
Mov'd onwards in princely state.
They came, with heavy chains,
For the race despis'd so long—
But amidst his Alp domains,
The herdsman's arm is strong!
The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they enter'd the rock defile,
And thrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rung the while.—
But on the misty height,
Where the mountain people stood,
There was stillness as of night,
When storms at distance brood:
There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause—but not of fear,
While the Switzers gaz'd on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright,
Between the lake and wood,
But they look'd not to the misty height,
Where the mountain people stood
The Pass was fill'd with their serried power,
All helm'd and mail-array'd,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder shower
In the rustling forest shade.
There were prince and crested knight
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood,
When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain people stood.
And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown—
Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong!
They came, like Lauwine** hurl’d,
From Alp to Alp in play,
When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.
The larch-woods crash'd on the mountain side,
And the Switzers rush'd from high
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm'd the narrow dell,
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,
Was the arm of William Tell†!
There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay,
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant's hand that day!
And the Empire's banners there,
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd men,
The men of the Forest Sea‡.
With their pikes and massy clubs, they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake,
From the reapers of the field!
The field—but not of sheaves—
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o'er it thick as the beech-wood leaves,
In the Autumn tempest's way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havock view’d
When the Austrian turn'd to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm'd was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the free-man tills,
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin home, midst the deep green hills,
All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprung to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight.
