and have told the flowers,
so that in their graceful bowers
they tell us how strong is our ardour.
The stars are confused to their core
that all our problems we tell.
From the strongest to the most frail
none can put up any more
with our variable mood,
our revolts and our cries -,
except the untiring table's wood
and the bed (when the table's died).
by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926)
Trans. by Brian Cole
