Sonnets to Orpheus, Number 6, Second Series
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rose, throned one, to the ancients
you were a cup with a simple rim,
but to us you are the full, unnumbered bloom
of an inexhaustible Dasein.
you were a cup with a simple rim,
but to us you are the full, unnumbered bloom
of an inexhaustible Dasein.
You shine in your richness like a costume
on a costume,
on a body made of nothing but shining,
but your single garment is the avoidance
and denial of any apparel.
on a body made of nothing but shining,
but your single garment is the avoidance
and denial of any apparel.
For centuries, your scent has wafted
its sweet names to us;
suddenly it hangs in the air like fame.
its sweet names to us;
suddenly it hangs in the air like fame.
In spite of this, we don’t know its name,
we guess . . .
and memory goes over
the names invoked in recallable hours.
and memory goes over
the names invoked in recallable hours.
The Rose
Jorge Luis Borges
Unfading rose that I cannot sing,
that of heft and fragrance,
that of the black garden in the tall night,
that of any garden of any afternoon,
rose that rises out of tenuous
ash by the art of alchemy,
rose of the Persians and of Ariosto,
that which is always alone,
always the rose of all roses,
young Platonic flower,
blind burning rose that I cannot sing,
unattainable rose.
