Swing of the heart. O firmly hung, fastened on what br invisible branch. Who, who gave you the push, br that you swung with me into the leaves? br How near I was to the exquisite fruits. But not-staying br is the essence of this motion. Only the nearness, only br toward the forever-too-high, all at once the possible br nearness. Vicinities, then br from an irresistibly swung-up-to place br -already, once again, lost-the new sight, the outlook. br And now: the commanded return br back and across and into equilbrium's arms. br Below, in between, hesitation, the pull of earth, the passage br through the turning-point of the heavy-, past it: and the br catapult stretches, br weighted with the heart's curiosity, br to the other side, opposite, upward. br Again how different, how new! How they envy each other br at the ends of the rope, these opposite halves of pleasure. br br Or, shall I dare it: these quarters? -And include, since it br witholds itself, br that other half-circle, the one whose impetus pushes the br swing? br I'm not just imagining it, as the mirror of my here-and-now br arc. Guess nothing. It will be br newer someday. But from endpoint to endpoint br of the arc that I have most dared, I already fully possess it: br overflowings from me plunge over to it and fill it, br stretch it apart, almost. And my own parting, br when the force that pushes me someday br stops, makes it all the more near.