Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what <br />invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push, <br />that you swung with me into the leaves? <br />How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying <br />is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only <br />toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible <br />nearness. Vicinities, then <br />from an irresistibly swung-up-to place <br />-already, once again, lost-the new sight, the outlook. <br />And now: the commanded return <br />back and across and into equilbrium's arms. <br />Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passage <br />through the turning-point of the heavy-, past it: and the <br />catapult stretches, <br />weighted with the heart's curiosity, <br />to the other side, opposite, upward. <br />Again how different, how new! How they envy each other <br />at the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure. <br /> <br />Or, shall I dare it: these quarters?-And include, since it <br />witholds itself, <br />that other half-circle, the one whose impetus pushes the <br />swing? <br />I'm not just imagining it, as the mirror of my here-and-now <br />arc. Guess nothing. It will be <br />newer someday. But from endpoint to endpoint <br />of the arc that I have most dared, I already fully possess it: <br />overflowings from me plunge over to it and fill it, <br />stretch it apart, almost. And my own parting, <br />when the force that pushes me someday <br />stops, makes it all the more near.<br /><br />Rainer Maria Rilke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dedication-to-m/
