I am, you anxious one. Don’t you hear me
surging against you with all my senses?
My feelings, which have found wings, circle
like white birds around your face.
And my soul - can’t you see it there
standing before you in a robe of silence?
Doesn’t my springtime prayer
ripen in your eyes as on a tree?

If you are the dreamer, I am your dream.
Bt if you choose to be awake, I am your will
and become the master of all majesty
and round to perfect stillness like a star
over the far-off city of time.

Rainer Maria Rilke, “Ich bin, du Ängstlicher. Hörst du mich nicht,” The Book of Hours, trans. Edward Snow