Praising is what matters! He was summoned for that,
and came to us like the ore from a stone's
silence. His mortal heart presses out
a deathless, inexhaustible wine.
Whenever he feels the god's paradigm grip
his throat, the voice does not die in his mouth.
All becomes vineyard, all becomes grape,
opened on the hills of his sensuous South.
Neither decay in the sepulchre of kings
nor any shadow that has falllen form the gods
can ever detract from his glorious praising.
For he is a herald who is with us always,
holding far into the doors of the dead,
a bowl with ripe fruit worthy of praise.
Rainer Maria Rilke, The Sonnets to Orpheus, I, 7
translated by Stephen Mitchell