The poets have scattered you.
A storm ripped through the stammering.
I want to gather you up again
in a vessel that makes you glad.
I wander in the thousand winds
that you are churning,
and bring back everything I find.
The blind man needed you as a cup.
The servant concealed you.
The beggar held you out as I passed.
You see, I am one who likes to look for things.
— Rilke, The Book of Hours I, 55