Wednesday, February 25, 2015

poem nineteen, sonnets to orpheus

Though the world change as fast
as cloud-shapes manifold,
all things perfected at last
fall back to the very old.

Past flux and vicissitude,
more freely and higher,
still endures your prelude,
god with the lyre.

We do not understand
grief, nor love's phases,
and what death keeps concealed

is not unveiled.
Only song through the land
hallows and praises
-Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus

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