How they are all about, these gentlemenIn chamberlains' apparel, stocked and laced, Like night around their order's star and gemAnd growing ever darker, stony-faced, And these, their ladies, fragile, wan, but proppedHigh by their bodice, one hand loosely dropped, Small like its collar, on the toy King-Charles: How they surround each one of these who stoppedTo read and contemplate the objects d'art, Of which some pieces still are theirs, not ours. Whit exquisite decorum they allow usA life of whose dimensions we seem sureAnd which they cannot grasp. They were aliveTo bloom, that is be fair; we, to mature, That is to be of darkness and to strive.
Afterward, Isabel drove me home and I shut myself in the study with Rilke, and I read and I wanted. And leaving you (there arent words to untangle it) Your life, fearful and immense and blossoming, So that, sometimes frustrated, and sometimes understanding Your life is sometimes a stone in you, and then, a starI was beginning to undertand poetry.
Again and Again, however, we know the language of love, and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and the staggeringly secret abyss in which others find their end: again and again the two of us go out under the ancient trees, make our bed again and again between the flowers, face to face with the skies