Or--hast thou climbed the smiling skies anew--
Come on the roseate tip
Of evening's breezy wing,
And teach my song with glee of youth to glow,
Sweet joy, like thee--with glee of shouting youths,
Or feeling Fanny's laugh.
Behind us far already Uto lay.
At whose feet Zurich in the quiet vale
Feeds her free sons: behind--
Receding vine-clad hills.