I might have been a rose,
Or I might have been a tree,
But all I am, instead, is me.

A pitiful, crawling thing,
Scratching in the dirt,
To write my name that I might not hurt.

Can I gain immortality?
Poor mortals all must die.
But I would spread my wings, and fly!

To the highest heights,
To the slopes divine
Let this all be mine!

Mine...can it be?
Perhaps I dream
And, waking, find my talent mean.

Oh Jehovah, Mars, Dionysis, Pan!
Grant me your grace, I pray,
To light up the Northern skies and may
I burn there to the wonder of man!

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