Love Song

How shall I hold my soul, that it may
not be touching yours? How shall I lift
it then above you to where other things
are waiting? Ah, gladly would I lodge it,
all forgot, with some lost thing the dark
is isolating on some remote and silent
spot that, when your depths vibrate,
is not itself vibrating.

You and me--all that lights upon us,
though, brings us together like a
fiddle-bow drawing one voice from
two strings it glides along. Across
what instruments have we been
spanned? And what violinist holds
us in his hand? O sweetest song.

A poem from Ranier Maria Rilke