From Rilke’s Book of Hours by Rainer Maria Rilke
I love you, gentlest of Ways,
who ripened us as we wrestled with you.
You, the great homesickness we could never shake off,
you, the forest that always surrounded us,
you, the song we sang in every silence,
you dark net threading through us,
You began yourself so greatly
on that day when you began us—
and we have so ripened in your sunlight,
spreading far and firmly planted–
that now in all people, angels, madonnas,
you can decide: the work is done.
Let your hand rest on the rim of Heaven now
and mutely bear the darkness we bring over you.