by Rainer Maria Rilke
How shall I keep my soul from
Brushing against yours? How shall I
Lift it past you toward any other thing?
How I wish to keep it stored with some
Thing lost in darkness, something
In a quiet place nowhere near by
That does not resound when your depths ring.
But all that touches us, both me and you,
Touches both at once, like the stroke of a bow
That draws one voice from double strings, from two.
On what instrument are we strung as bands?
And what musician holds us in his hands?
Oh song sweet and low.