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