The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess’d them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick’d by the indolent waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep’d amid honey’d morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.

茨维塔耶娃给里尔克写的新年问候："我们这个星球
曾一度作为全然的整体赠予你。
不是作为生命和灰烬，身体与灵魂
（把这两者分开也就冒犯了它们）
但是你的视野会随着你，跟着你自己，"

for惠特曼这一次死而复生的飞行，茨维塔耶娃对里尔克做的是同样的事情，但方向相反，刚去世的里尔克equipped了另一种视野，在我们这一端看起来像是谜团

—
Song of Myself 26