In the Grace of Your Love

Eurydice

She had come into another virginity
and wasn't to be touched; her sex was closed
like a young flower toward evening,
and her hands were by now so unused
to being wed that even the gentle god's
infinitely soft, light, guiding touch
offended her as too intimate.

She was no more the woman of flaxen hair
who sometimes resonated in the poet's songs,
no more the odor and island of the wide bed,
and that man's possession no more.

She was already loosened like long hair
and surrendered like fallen rain
and meted out like a hundred-fold supply.

Already she was root.

And when suddenly, abruptly,
the god stopped her and in a pained voice
said: "He's turned around,"
she did not understand and quietly answered: "Who?"

In the distance, dark before the bright exit,
stood someone whose face
could not be recognized.  He stood and saw
how on a strip of the meadow path
with mournful look the god of tidings
silently turned to follow the figure
who already had started back down,
her steps impeded by long winding-sheets,
unsure, slowly, without impatience.

~Rilke

To The Lighthouse

 And as she looked at him she began to smile, for though she had not said a word, he knew, of course he knew, that she loved him.  He could not deny it.  And smiling she looked out of the window and said (thinking to herself, Nothing on earth can equal this happiness)--

"Yes, you were right.  It's going to be wet tomorrow.  You won't be able to go."  And she looked at him smiling.  For she had triumphed again.  She had not said it:  yet he knew.