They all have tired mouths
and bright seamless souls.
And a longing (as for sin)
sometimes haunts their dream.
They are almost all alike;
in God’s gardens they keep still,
like many, many intervals
in his might and melody.
Only when they spread their wings
are they wakers of a wind:
as if God with his broad sculptor-
hands leafed through the pages
in the dark book of the beginning.
source:
Rilke, Rainer Maria. The Book of Images. New York: FSG, 1994. Print.
view from a burrow 