Wrapt in herself she wandered. And her deadness
was filling her like fullness.
Full as a fruit with sweetness and with darkness
was she with her great death, which was so new
that for the time she could take nothing in.
She had attained a new virginity
and was intangible; her sex had closed
like a young flower at the approach of evening,
and her pale hands had grown so disaccustomed
to being a wife, that even the slim god’s
endlessly gentle contact as he led her
disturbed her like a too great intimacy.
Even now she was no longer that blonde woman
who’d sometimes echoed in the poet’s poems,
no longer the broad couch’s scent and island,
nor yonder man’s possession any longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
and given far and wide like fallen rain,
and dealt out like a manifold supply.
And when abruptly,
the god had halted her and, with an anguished
outcry, outspoke the words: He has turned round!—
she took in nothing, and said softly: Who?
—Rainer Maria Rilke, “Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.” (1904, excerpt) tr. Stephen Mitchell