Some day when I lose you,
will you still be able to sleep,
without me to whisper over you
like a crown of linden branches?
Without me to stay awake here
and put words, almost like eyelids,
on your breasts, on your limbs,
down upon your mouth.
Without me to lock you up
and leave you alone with what is yours
like a garden thickly sown
with mint-balm and star-anise.
[Rainer Maria Rilke {1875-1926} 'Lullaby', from New Poems {1908}]
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