And something like a girl it was that, rising
from this melded bliss of song and lyre,
clearly shone through springtime veils
and made herself a bed inside my ear.
She slept in me. And all things were her sleep.
The trees I always marveled at; open
distance, tangible; grasslands, felt;
and every wonder that astonished me.
She slept the world. Singing God, how did
you so complete her that she did not long
first to wake? See: she rose and slept.
Where is her death? O will you yet compose
that theme before your song consumes itself?—
She's sinking out of me to...where?... A girl, almost…
--Rainer Maria Rilke/Jon Scott Jones
