Sonnet to Orpheus

And almost a girl it was who arose

from this united joy of song and lyre

and shone clearly through her veils of Spring

and made her bed in my ear.

and slept in me. And everything was her sleep.

The trees I ever marveled at,

this palpable distance, the sensed meadow

and every wonder about myself.

She slept the world. Singing God, how were you

able to perfect her, without her

first desiring to be awake? Look, she came into being and slept.

Where is her death? Oh, will you still invent this motive,

before your song would consume itself?

As she slips away from me, where will I find her? A girl almost...