I.

Humanity: a name unsurely owned

and always fickle in its happiness.

Is it inhuman that two eyes were honed

down to this lace, this small, tight bit of lace —

two eyes you might wish once more to possess?

Lacemaker long since gone (and finally blind):

did you infuse this thing with your devotion;

tree-like, press through the bole and bark, to find

the way in with your fine, unchanged emotion?

For through a loophole — through a rent — in fate,

you drew your soul straight out of history.

Now in this little lace it is so great,

it makes one smile at all utility.

II.

And if sometimes our work and all that we

experience and do appear to turn

out trivial, alien — something we don't earn;

the reason why such burdens grew to be

extracted from our childhood? If this bit

of tight-knit lace — this lace now yellowed, old,

and flowered — is not strong enough to hold

us here? But look: someone perfected it.

Perhaps a life was scorned. What can we know?

A joy was there, and then allowed to die,

till it became at last this thing — although

at what great price? Not less than life, a sigh.

And yet so lovely — made — as if to show

it is no more too soon to smile; to fly.

Ein Frauen-Schicksal

So wie der König auf der Jagd ein Glas

ergreift, daraus zu trinken, irgendeines, —

und wie hernach der welcher es besaß

es fortstellt und verwahrt als wär es keines:

so hob vielleicht das Schicksal, durstig auch,

bisweilen Eine an den Mund und trank,

die dann ein kleines Leben, viel zu bang

sie zu zerbrechen, abseits vom Gebrauch

hinstellte in die ängstliche Vitrine,

in welcher seine Kostbarkeiten sind

(oder die Dinge, die für kostbar gelten).

Da stand sie fremd wie eine Fortgeliehne

und wurde einfach alt und wurde blind

und war nicht kostbar und war niemals selten.