Translated from the German by Martyn Crucefix
Praising, that’s it! He was called to praise
and emerged from the silence of a stone
like an ore. O his heart – a temporary press
for man’s everlasting wine.
Nor does his voice grow choked with dust
once it is seized by the god-like example.
All becomes vineyard, all becomes juice
in his southern land, so ripe and sensual.
Even from tombs where kings have decayed
nothing gives the lie to his praising.
Nor can the gods cause any shadow to fall.
He is the one, he is the constant herald
who – even far through the doors of the dead –
holds a bowl of fruit, ripe for the praising.
Sonnet I:7 from Sonnets to Orpheus by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Martyn Crucefix. Enitharmon Press (London 2012). Reprinted by kind permission of the publisher and translator.