Praising, that's it! One ordained to praise,

he sprang like ore from the silence of stone.

His heart, oh, perishable winepress

of an infinite wine, for man alone.

His voice no dust can choke or dim

when divine instance seizes him.

All turns vineyard, clusters of grapes,

in his susceptible south grown ripe.

Nor mold in the kings' sepulchers

gives the lie to his laudings, nor

that from the gods a shadow falls.

Of the abiding messengers,

he reaches far into death's door

glorious fruit in golden bowls

-from Sonnets to Orpheus, Rilke