Where is there for this inner an outer?
Upon which hurt does one lay such fine linen?
And which heavens are reflected within them, upon the interior seas of these open roses, these carefree ones; see:
how loose in looseness
they lie, as if a trembling hand
could never tip them over.
They can hardly hold themselves
erect; many allow themselves
be filled all too full and flow
over from inner space
into the days, which, ever
more and more full, close in upon themselves,
until the entire summer becomes
a chamber, a chamber in a dream.
Rainer Maria Rilke, the Inner Rose