I <br />She lay, and serving-men her lithe arms took, <br />And bound them round the withering old man, <br />And on him through the long sweet hours she lay, <br />And little fearful of his many years. <br /> <br />And many times she turned amidst his beard <br />Her face, as often as the night-owl screeched, <br />And all that was the night around them reached <br />Its feelers manifold of longing fears. <br /> <br />As they had been the sisters of the child <br />The stars trembled, and fragrance searched the room, <br />The curtain stirring sounded with a sign <br />Which drew her gentle glances after it. <br /> <br />But she clung close upon the dim old man, <br />And, by the night of nights not over-taken, <br />Upon the cooling of the King she lay <br />Maidenly, and lightly as a soul. <br /> <br />II <br />The King sate thinking out the empty day <br />Of deeds accomplished and untasted joys, <br />And of his favorite bitch that he had bredC <br />But with the evening Abishag was arched <br />Above him. His disheveled life lay bare, <br />Abandoned as diffamed coasts, beneath <br />The quiet constellation of her breasts. <br /> <br />But many times, as one in women skilled, <br />he through his eyebrows recognized the mouth <br />Unmoved, unkissed; and saw: the comet green <br />Of her desired reached not to where he lay. <br />He shivered. And he listened like a hound, <br />And sought himself in his remaining blood.<br /><br />Rainer Maria Rilke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/abishag/
