Enchanted one: how can the harmony of two
Latin words ever attain the rhythm
that ripples through you like a promise.
From your brow rise leaf and lyre.
And all that is you turns to metaphor
in love poems whose phrases light
as rose petals remain in the expression
of one who, after reading, closes her eyes
to see you: almost in flight,
borne away in leaps that cease their springing
only when you stand stock still to listen;
as when a woman bathing in a woodland stream
pauses suddenly, and the water
mirrors her quick-turned face.
— Rilke, New Poems