Who if I cried out would hear me among the Angelic

Orders? And even if one were to suddenly

take me to it’s heart, I would vanish into its

stronger existence, For beauty is nothing but

the beginning of terror, that we are just able to bear,

and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains

to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.

And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry

of a darkened sobbing, Ah, who then can

we make use of?  Not Angels, not men,

and already the knowing creatures are aware

that we are not really at home

in our interpreted world.

Rilke was not known to be a happy go lucky guy. But melancholy does have it’s creative advantages. How can beauty be terror? It reminds us of our shortcomings. It is a yardstick measuring how far from perfection, how far from love, one is. The animals call to us and seeing from within one looks at the world and lives a life. How I envy the flight of even the lowliest bird.