David Sings Before Saul (II)

My king, all of this was yours.
The force of your living
oppressed and overshadowed me.
Come down from your thrown and break this harp
that you have wearied.

It is like a tree picked bare, and
through branches that once bore fruit
a depth is staring as from days to come,
days I cannot know.

Let me sleep no more beside the harp.
Look at my hand, still a boy’s hand.
Do you think it could not span
the octaves of a lover’s body?

— Rilke, New Poems

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