How dear you will be to me then, you nights of anguish.
Why didn't I kneel more deeply to accept you, inconsolable sisters,
and surrendering, lose myself in your loosened hair.
How we squander our hours of pain.
How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration
to see if they have an end.
Though they are really seasons of us, our winter enduring foliage,
ponds, meadows, our inborn landscape,
where birds and reed-dwelling creatures are at home.
by Rainer Maria Rilke