Rilke

Creatures of stillness thronged out of the clear
disentangled forest, from nest and lair;
and it wasn’t cunning, wasn’t heed or fright
that put such softness in their step,

but listening. Bellow, shriek, and roar
seemed small inside their hearts. And where once
there’d scarcely been a hut to take this in,

a hidden refuge made of darkest longing
with an entranceway whose braces shook,–
you built temples for them in their hearing.

(from Sonnets to Orpheus, translated by Edward Snow)

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