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致一位年轻诗人的信letters to a young poet(6)
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what is less perfect precede him, so that he can choose himself out of fullness and superabundance? must he not be the last one, so that he can include everything in himself, and what meaning would we have if he whom we are longing for has already existed?

  as bees gather honey, so we collect what is sweetest out of all things and build him. even with the trivial, with the insignificant (as long as it is done out of love) we begin, with work and with the repose that comes afterward, with a silence or with a small solitary joy, with everything that we do alone, without anyone to join or help us, we start him whom we will not live to see, just as our ancestors could not live to see us. and yet they, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture that rises up from the depths of time.

  is there anything that can deprive you of the hope that in this way you will someday exist in him, who is

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