Dedication To M.

Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what invisible 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-staying is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible nearness. Vicinities, then from an irresistibly swung-up-to place -already, once again, lost-the new sight, the outlook. And now: the commanded return back and across and into equilbrium's arms. Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passage through the turning-point of the heavy-, past it: and the catapult stretches, weighted with the heart's curiosity, to the other side, opposite, upward. Again how different, how new! How they envy each other at the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure. Or, shall I dare it: these quarters?-And include, since it witholds itself, that other half-circle, the one whose impetus pushes the swing? I'm not just imagining it, as the mirror of my here-and-now arc. Guess nothing. It will be newer someday. But from endpoint to endpoint of 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 someday stops, makes it all the more near.