Spanish Trilogy (I)

From these clouds, that carelessly cover
the star that just was there —
from these mountains over there, now, for a while,
taken by the night —
from this river on the valley floor,
that glimmers with the sky’s broken light —
from me and all of this: to make one thing.

From me and from the feel of the flock
brought back to the fold, to outlast
the great dark closing down of the world —
from me and from each flicker of light
from the shadowed houses — God, to make one thing.

From the strangers, among whom I know not one, God,
and from me, from me —
to make one thing. From all the slumbering ones,
coughing old men in the hospice,
sleep-drunken children in crowded beds,
from me and all I don’t know,
to make the thing, oh God, God, that thing,
that, half-heaven, half-earth, gathers into its gravity
only the sum of flight,
weighing nothing but arrival.

— Rilke, Uncollected Poems

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