Set up no stone to his memory.
Just let the rose bloom each year for his sake.
For it is Orpheus. His metamorphosis
in this one and in this. We should not trouble
about other names. Once and for all
it’s Orpheus when there’s singing. He comes and goes.
Is it not much already if at times
he overstays for a few days the bowl of roses?
O how he has to vanish, for you to grasp it!
Though he himself take fright at vanishing.
Even while his word transcends the being-here,
he’s there already where you do not follow.
The lyre’s lattice does not snare his hands.
And he obeys, while yet he oversteps. ~Ranier Rilke