They all have tired mouths
and bright seamless souls.
And a longing (as for sin)
sometimes haunts their dreams.

They are almost all alike;
in God’s gardens they keep still,
like many, many intervals
in his might and melody.

Only when they spread their wings
are they wakers of a wind:
as if God with his broad sculptor-
hands leafed through the pages
in the dark book of the beginning. 

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Images

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