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Pastimes : Valentine's Day Thread

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To: Edwarda who wrote (883)	2/15/2000 8:04:00 AM
From: Neocon	of 1070

I believe this is the elegy I was trying to recall from my brother's wedding, although it has been awhile: Rainer Maria Rilke Second Elegy, from Duino Elegies Every angel is terrible And still, alas knowing all that I serenade you you almost deadly birds of the soul. Where are the days of Tobias when one of these brightest of creatures stood at the simple front door disguised a little for the trip and not so frightening (a young man like the one who looked curiously out at him). If the dangerous archangel took one step now down toward us from behind the stars our heartbeats rising like thunder would kill us. Who are you? Creation's spoiled darlings among the first to be perfect a chain of mountains peaks and ridges red in the morning light of all creation the blossoming godhead's pollen joints of pure light corridors staircases thrones pockets of essence ecstasy shields tumultuous storms of delightful feelings then suddenly separate mirrors gathering the beauty that streamed away from them back to their own faces again. For as we feel we evaporate oh we breathe ourselves out and away emberglow to emberglow we give off a fainter smell. It's true that someone may say to us "You're in my blood this room the spring is filling with you'... What good is that? he can't keep us we vanish inside him around him. And the beautiful oh who can hold them back? It's endless: appearance shines from their faces disappearing - like dew rising from morning grass we breathe away what is ours like steam from a hot dish. Oh smile where are you going? Oh lifted glance new,warm receding wave of the heart woe is me? it's all of us. Does the outer space into which we dissolve taste of us at all? Do the angels absorb only what's theirs what streamed away from them or do they sometimes get as if by mistake a little of our being too? Are we mixed into their features as slightly as that vague look in the faces of pregnant women? In their swirling return to themselves they don't notice it. (How could they notice it?) Lovers, if they knew how might say strange things in the night air. For it seems that all things try to conceal us. See, the trees are and the houses we live in still hold their own, It's just we who pass everything by like air being traded for air. And all things agree to keep quiet about us maybe half to shame us and half from a hope they can't express. Lovers, you who are each other's satisfaction I ask you about us. You hold each other. Does that settle it? You see it sometimes happens that my hands grow conscious of each other or that my used face shelters itself within them. That gives me a slight sensation. But who'd claim from that to exist? You, though, who grow by each other's ecstasy until drowning you beg "no more!" you who under each other's hands become more abundant like the grapes of great vintages fading at times but only because the other comletely takes over- I ask you about us. I know that touch is a blessing for you because the caress lasts because what you cover so tenderly does not disappear because you can sense underneath the touch some kind of pure duration. Somehow enternity almost seems possible as you embrace. And yet when you've got past the fear in that first exchange of glances

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