These laborers of rain, these heavy clouds,
see how evening takes them on celestial vacations;
a delirium of uselessness has gripped them,
and their vacationing edges dare transparencies.
They nonchalantly imitate mountains and islands
and propose luminous caps to the shipwrecks of sight.
And later, in front of the moon,
how many of there profiles will become feminine.
Around them, these depths which soon
ought to hold the numberless worlds, blanch.
And a friend who doesn’t watch herself says: Nice,
and closes herself on the unutterable.
-Rainer Maria Rilke
From French poems : translated by A.Poulin, JR