A poem by Rainer Maria Rilke
The city drifts no longer like a bait now,
upcatching all the days as they emerge.
Brittlier the glassy palaces vibrate now
beneath your gaze. And from each garden verge
the summer like a bunch of puppets dangles,
headforemost, weary, made away.
Out of the ground, though, from dead forest tangles
volition mounts: as though before next day
the sea-commander must have rigged and ready
the galleys in the sleepless Arsenal,
and earliest morning air be tarred already
by an armada, oaringly outpressing,
and suddenly, with flare of flags, possessing
and great wind, radiant and invincible.
Author notes
Written February 19th, 2005
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