Where shall one match this grace within,
Without? What pain
Does one assuage with such a linen?
What heavens are mirrored in
The inland sea
Of these blown roses,
How loosely each uncloses
Lying so, as though no
Trembling hand could scatter them.
They strain so lavishly upon the stem
That most cannot withhold
Their end, but flow and overflow
Out of the inner room to stream
Into the day, and still to bloom
Fuller and fuller till their life is told,
And the whole summer becomes a room,
A room in a dream.
(From the German of Rainer Maria Rilke.)