God, every night is hard.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don’t you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.
I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door. Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid —
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees,
when I bow my head,
faint as fragrance
from the soil.
— Rilke, From The Book of Hours II, 3