She was a maid almost, emerging here
from this united joy of song and lyre
and shone clear through her vernal veils like fire
and made herself a bed inside my ear.

And slept in me. And all was in her sleep.
The trees, which I always admired, such
palpable distance, the meadow felt so much
and every wonder, that affected me.

She slept the world. Oh singing god, how did
you so complete her, that she did not care
to wake up first? Look, she stood and dreamed.

Where is her death? Will you invent this theme
before your song consumes itself? To where
sinks she away from me? ... Almost a maid ...

-Rainer Maria Rilke-