I had a request for Rilke, whom I love. Here is one of the poems not reprinted as often as "Archaic Torso of Apollo" (the one shown in my icon) or "The Panther."
What birds plunge through is not the intimate space, in which you see all Forms intensified. (In the Open, denied, you would lose yourself, would disappear into that vastness.)
Space reaches from us and translates Things: to become the very essence of a tree, throw inner space around it, from that space that lives in you. Encircle it with restraint. It has no limits. For the first time, shaped in your renouncing, it becomes fully tree.