Death

Before us great Death stands
   Our fate held close within his quiet hands.
   When with proud joy we lift Life's red wine
   To drink deep of the mystic shining cup
   And ecstasy through all our being leaps--
   Death bows his head and weeps.




    THE ASHANTEE
                    (Jardin d'Acclimatation, Paris)


    No vision of exotic southern countries,
    No dancing women, supple, brown and tall
    Whirling from out their falling draperies
    To melodies that beat a fierce mad call;

    No sound of songs that from the hot blood rise,
    No langorous, stretching, dusky, velvet maids
    Flashing like gleaming weapon their bright eyes,
    No swift, wild thrill the quickening blood pervades.

    Only mouths widening with a still broad smile
    Of comprehension, a strange knowing leer
    At white men, at their vanity and guile,
    An understanding that fills one with fear.

    The beasts in cages much more loyal are,
    Restlessly pacing, pacing to and fro,
    Dreaming of countries beckoning from afar,
    Lands where they roamed in days of long ago.

    They burn with an unquenched and smothered fire
    Consumed by longings over which they brood,
    Oblivious of time, without desire,
    Alone and lost in their great solitude.

        Rainer Maria Rilke
        (tr. Jessie Lamont)