Dionysiac

 

 

 

 

Still praising he comes, like gold
from the silence of stone,  
His fading heartbeats pressing
fruit into deathless wine.

The gift of his song transforms
Even the common things
For him, everything's vineyards,  
Warmed by his southern sun.

Mold may gather on the tombs
of kings but he shall be
Eulogizing ceaselessly
Even as the light fades.

His voice shall go on singing
In praise of those ripe fruits
Carried on his shining tray
Into the gaping tomb.

 -Rilke (Sonnets to Orpheus VII)