This laboring through what is still undone,
As though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
Is like the awkward walking of the swan.
And dying—to let go, no longer feel
The solid ground we stand on every day—
Is like his anxious letting himself fall
Into the water, which receives him gently
And which, as though with reverence and joy,
Drawback past him in streams of either side;
While, infinitely silent and aware,
In his full majesty and ever more
Indifferent, he condescends to glide.
Ranier Maria Rilke