Wings! wings! to fly

Wings! Wings! to fly

over mountain and valley;

wings, to cradle my heart

upon the morning sunbeams!

Wings, to float across the ocean

with the reddish dawn;

wings, wings over life,

over the grave and death!

Wings like those that youth has,

for they have flown away from me;

wings like Luck's shadow,

that cheated my heart!

Wings, to chase after the days

that have passed!

Wings, to hunt the joys

that have escaped in the wind.

Wings like those of the nightingales

when the roses are blooming,

to soar after them from the land

to where the mists float! Wings! Wings!

Ah! From the beach of exile,

where no boats beckon,

Wings, wings to the homeland,

where my crown flashes!

Freedom, just as a caterpillar

transforms into a butterfly

when the wings of the spirit sretch

and graze the cocoon!

Often at silent midnight

I feel myself rising

with wings of dreamlike power

to the starry gate.

But these wings which sprout

in the fragrance of the night -

I see them fall off again

in the morning breeze.

The burning sun melts the pinions;

Icarus plunges into the sea,

and the power of his intentions

rolls here over his spirit.