(Words of the Angel)
You are not nearer to God than we,
and we are far at best,
yet through your hands most wonderfully
his glory's manifest.
From woman's sleeves none ever grew
so ripe, so shimmeringly;
I am the day, I am the dew,
you, Lady, are the Tree.
Pardon, now my long journey's done,
I had forgot to say
what he who sat as in the sun,
grand in his gold array,
told me to tell you, pensive one
(space has bewildered me).
I, the beginner, have begun,
you, Lady, are the Tree.
I spread my wings out wide and rose,
the space around grew less;
your little house quite overflows
with my abundant dress.
But still you keep your solitude
and hardly notice me;
I'm but a breeze within the wood,
you, Lady, are the Tree.
The angels tremble in their choir,
grow pale, and separate:
never were longing and desire
so vague and yet so great.
Something perhaps is going to be
that you perceived in dream.
Hail to you! for my soul can see
that you are ripe and teem.
You lofty gate, that any day
may open for our good:
your ear my longing songs assay,
my word- I know now- lost its way
in you as in a wood.
And thus your last dream was designed
to be fulfilled by me.
God looked at me: he made me blind...
You, lady, are the Tree.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
(trans by JB Leishman)
featured art-- Domenico Beccafumi
