Musings
Poetry by Rilke
The Swan
This laboring through what is still undone,
as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
is like the
akward walking of the swan.
And dying-to let go, no longer feel
the solid ground we stand on every day-
is like anxious letting himself fall
into waters, which receive him gently
and which, as though with
reverence and joy,
draw back past him in streams on either side;
while, infinitely silent and
aware,
in his full majesty and ever more
indifferent, he condescends to glide.
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