Flower-muscle that opens, little by little, the meadow-morning of the anemone until the bright sky's polyphonous light pours itself fourth into her womb, tensed muscle of unending welcome poured into the quiet star-bloom, at times so overpowered with abundance that the sunset's silent gesture can hardly return to you the leaves' widely sprung-back edges: you, resolve and power of how many worlds! We, the violent ones, we endure longer. But when, in which of all lives, will we finally be open and receivers?
Poetry by Rainer Maria Rilke, “Sonnets to Orpheus, II.5” from Sonnets to Orpheus, Translated by Mark S. Burrows