Early Apollo

As when at times there breaks through branches bare
    A morning vibrant with the breath of spring,
    About this poet-head a splendour rare
    Transforms it almost to a mortal thing.

    There is as yet no shadow in his glance,
    Too cool his temples for the laurel's glow;
    But later o'er those marble brows, perchance,
    A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow,

    And single petals one by one will fall
    O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall,
    --The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile
    As though a song were rising there the while.

        Rainer Maria Rilke
        (tr. Jessie Lamont)