Song of the Angels, William Adolphe Bouguereau I find myself praying some
lines of poems. The metaphors
go deep. Deep calls to deep.
Rilke's whole poem :
Ah, as we prayed for human help: angels soundlessly,
with single strides, climbed over
our prostrate hearts
And then thinking upon
the morning:
" The morning air is all awash
with angels."
I quote them in conversations
so if you talk to me anytime soon,
a line from the poems may come out.
And then thinking upon
the morning:
" The morning air is all awash
with angels."
I quote them in conversations
so if you talk to me anytime soon,
a line from the poems may come out.
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