It was a girl, really ^___ there is a double joy
of poetry and music that she came from ^___
and I could see her glowing through her spring clothes:
she made a place to sleep inside my ear.

And she slept in me. Her sleep was everything.
The trees I'd always loved, those distances that we
can almost touch, the pastures I felt so much,
and every miracle I found in myself.

She was sleeping it all. Wild Singing God,
how did you do it that she had no desire at all
to be awake? See she got up sleeping.

And when will she die? And you want to find this out,
also, even before your poem fades?
Where is she going to, as she sinks away... a girl really.

Translation by Robert Bly