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“The nymph who laments, guardian of our spring of tears, Dares come only within the compass of praising, of song, - She who watches over the settling of the precipitate, That it be clear, on that same rock That bears the gates and the altars. - See, about her shoulders so tranquil there rises The sensation that she must be the youngest Of those sisters, to be disposed so. Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges, - Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden’s hand She counts out the old sorrows through the night. But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised, She holds aloft a constellation of our voices Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath.” — Rainer Maria Rilke
The nymph who laments, guardian of our spring of tears,
Dares come only within the compass of praising, of song, -
She who watches over the settling of the precipitate,
That it be clear, on that same rock
That bears the gates and the altars. -
See, about her shoulders so tranquil there rises
The sensation that she must be the youngest
Of those sisters, to be disposed so.
Exultation knows, and fierce Desire acknowledges, -
Only Lamentation must still learn; with a maiden’s hand
She counts out the old sorrows through the night.
But suddenly, slantwise and unpractised,
She holds aloft a constellation of our voices
Against the heavens, left unobscured by her breath.