Can my soul be prevented from touching yours?
How? How can I lift it beyond yours
to the stars, and higher? If I could hide my soul from yours
in the wall-less wardrobe of space, free it in time from yours,
let it spin with dark lost things and not tremble when yours
calls out to it… ah, but how my soul seeks yours…
Whatever touches yours or mine is ours.
Doesn’t the violin’s bow spanning two souls like ours
draw out a richer note, two joys as one – ours?
Whose instrument are we strung so tautly across? Ours.
Whose are the sensitive hands that cradle it? Ours.
And whose the tongues teasing song from its neck and sweet belly? Ours –
the song is ours!
– Love Song (actually Liebes-Lied), Rainer Maria Rilke, written in Paris, though he is Czech/Austrian, 1907