This toil and struggle-passing on, heavy
and as if bound, through things still undone,
is like the makeshift walking of the swan.
And dying-this no longer grasping
of that ground, on which we daily stand
like his nervous settling himself-:
into the water, which received him gently,
and which, so happy in its passing,
draws back under him, wave after wave;
while he, infinitely still and sure,
ever more confidently and majestically
and serenely designs to glide.
-Rainer Maria Rilke
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