This laboring through what is still undone,
As though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
Is like the akward walking of the swan.
And dying-to let go, no longer feel
The solid ground we stand on every day-
Is like anxious letting himself fall
Into waters, which receive him gently
And which, as though with reverence and joy,
Draw back past him in streams on either side;
While, infinitely silent and aware,
In his full majesty and ever more
Indifferent, he condescends to glide.