Looking up from my book, from the close countable lines
into the finished-full night outside:
how in starry measure my packed feelings scatter,
as though a bouquet of wildflowers
were being untied:

youth of the light and bending sway of the heavy
and these tender ones’ hesitant curve—-,
Everywhere joy in relation and no craving anywhere;
world in excess and earth sufficient.

Rilke (Edward Snow translation)
Paris, February 1914