Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,—the sages tell us it is
beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day
and night; it is not of the earth.
But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and
space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust.
Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your
The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a—tiptoe
to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother—