Wednesday, September 03, 2008

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

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