Flower-muscle, anemone,
gradually opening in the meadow morning,
as into you the many-toned
light of the bright heavens is poured,
light of the bright heavens is poured,
into that tense but quiet muscle
of infinite reception—
of infinite reception—
sometimes so completely overpowered
that the resting posture of the downfall
hardly allows the hinged
petals to spring back and cover you:
you, decision and power of how many worlds!
We, violent ones, we weather longer.
But when—in which of all our lives—
can we finally be so open and receptive?
Sonnet 5 of the Sonnets to Orpheus, second series
