O how complete I was,
nothing calling, nothing that divulged me;
my stillness was like a stone’s
over which the brook makes its murmuring.
But now in these spring weeks
something has slowly broken me off
from the dark unconscious year.
Something has given my poor warm life
into the hand of someone random
who doesn’t know what even yesterday I was.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Woman in Love,” The Book of Images. Trans. by Edward Snow (North Point Press, 1994)