Poem for the Week

The Gazelle by Rainer Maria Rilke (1907)

Tranced creature: no rhyme or ringing words
can match the pulse that rolls
through you like a charm. Horns spring
from your head, adorning you with leaf and lyre,

and you are your own metaphor,
just as the words of a love-song
are like a drift of rose-petals, closing
the eyes of a tired reader, so as to see you—

four legs pointed, ready
to recoil and ricochet away

but waiting, listening: just as
the bathing huntress heard the forest stir,
and turned, the quivering pool reflected in her face.

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