From Rilke’s Book of Hours

You, mountain,
Here since mountains began
slopes where nothing is built
Peaks that no one has named,

Eternal snows littered with stars,
Valleys in flower—

Do I move inside you now?
Am I within the rock
Like a metal that hasn’t been mined?
Your hardness
Encloses me everywhere

Or is it fear I am caught in?
The tightening fear
of swollen cities
in which I suffocate.

–Rainer Maria Rilke