The bleak fields are asleep, My heart alone wakes; The evening in the harbour Down his red sails takes. Night, guardian of dreams, Now wanders through the land; The moon, a lily white, Blossoms within her hand.
Rainer Maria Rilke - 1875-1926
Is he native to this realm? No, his wide nature grew out of both worlds. They more adeptly bend the willow's branches who have experience of the willow's roots. When you go to bed, don't leave bread or milk on the table: it attracts the dead— But may he, this quiet conjurer, may he beneath the mildness of the eyelid mix their bright traces into every seen thing; and may the magic of earthsmoke and rue be as real for him as the clearest connection. Nothing can mar for him the authentic image; whether he wanders through houses or graves, let him praise signet ring, gold necklace, jar.