The day before me and the night behind,
The heavens above my head and under me the ocean. 
A lovely dream,—­meanwhile he’s gone from sight. 
Ah! sure, no earthly wing, in swiftest flight,
May with the spirit’s wings hold equal motion. 
Yet has each soul an inborn feeling
Impelling it to mount and soar away,
When, lost in heaven’s blue depths, the lark is pealing
High overhead her airy lay;
When o’er the mountain pine’s black shadow,
With outspread wing the eagle sweeps,
And, steering on o’er lake and meadow,
The crane his homeward journey keeps.

Wagner. I’ve had myself full many a wayward hour,
But never yet felt such a passion’s power. 
One soon grows tired of field and wood and brook,
I envy not the fowl of heaven his pinions. 
Far nobler joy to soar through thought’s dominions
From page to page, from book to book! 
Ah! winter nights, so dear to mind and soul! 
Warm, blissful life through all the limbs is thrilling,
And when thy hands unfold a genuine ancient scroll,
It seems as if all heaven the room were filling.

Faust.  One passion only has thy heart possessed;
The other, friend, O, learn it never! 
Two souls, alas! are lodged in my wild breast,
Which evermore opposing ways endeavor,
The one lives only on the joys of time,
Still to the world with clamp-like organs clinging;
The other leaves this earthly dust and slime,
To fields of sainted sires up-springing. 
O, are there spirits in the air,
That empire hold ’twixt earth’s and heaven’s dominions,
Down from your realm of golden haze repair,
Waft me to new, rich life, upon your rosy pinions! 
Ay! were a magic mantle only mine,
To soar o’er earth’s wide wildernesses,
I would not sell it for the costliest dresses,
Not for a royal robe the gift resign.

Wagner.  O, call them not, the well known powers of air,
That swarm through all the middle kingdom, weaving
Their fairy webs, with many a fatal snare
The feeble race of men deceiving. 
First, the sharp spirit-tooth, from out the North,
And arrowy tongues and fangs come thickly flying;
Then from the East they greedily dart forth,
Sucking thy lungs, thy life-juice drying;
If from the South they come with fever thirst,
Upon thy head noon’s fiery splendors heaping;
The Westwind brings a swarm, refreshing first,
Then all thy world with thee in stupor steeping. 
They listen gladly, aye on mischief bent,
Gladly draw near, each weak point to espy,
They make believe that they from heaven are sent,
Whispering like angels, while they lie. 
But let us go!  The earth looks gray, my friend,
The air grows cool, the mists ascend! 
At night we learn our homes to prize.—­
Why dost thou stop and stare with all thy eyes? 
What can so chain thy sight there, in the gloaming?

Faust.  Seest thou that black dog through stalks and stubble roaming?