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.