Rainer Maria Rilke
He stands like someone lying down,
propped up by his own huge will.
Off somewhere else, like mothers when they nurse,
and bound in himself like a wreath.
And the arrows arrive: now, and now,
as if they sprang out of his thighs,
iron and trembling at the ends. And still
he smiles darkly, he’s not hurt.
Just once a sadness suddenly looms large,
and his eyes grow naked with pain
until they deny something, not worth the trouble,
filling with scorn as they come to relinquish
those who would kill a beautiful thing.