Swing of the heart.
O firmly hung, fastened on whatinvisible branch.
Who, who gave you the push,that you swung with me into the leaves?
How near I was to the exquisite fruits.
But not-stayingis the essence of this motion.
Only the nearness, onlytoward the forever-too-high, all at once the possiblenearness.
Vicinities, thenfrom an irresistibly swung-up-to place—already, once again, lost—the new sight, the outlook.
And now: the commanded returnback and across and into equilibrium's arms.
Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passagethrough the turning-point of the heavy—, past it: and thecatapult stretches,weighted with the heart's curiosity,to the other side, opposite, upward.
Again how different, how new!
How they envy each otherat the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure.
Or, shall I dare it: these quarters?—And include, since itwithholds itself,that other half-circle, the one whose impetus pushes theswing?
I'm not just imagining it, as the mirror of my here-and-nowarc.
Guess nothing.
It will benewer someday.
But from endpoint to endpointof the arc that I have most dared,
I already fully possess it:overflowings from me plunge over to it and fill it,stretch it apart, almost.
And my own parting,when the force that pushes me somedaystops, makes it all the more near.
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
