This is the creature there has never been.

They never knew it, and yet, none the less,

they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,

its neck, its gaze, mild and serene. 


Not there, because they loved it, it behaved 

as though it were.  They always left some space.

And in that clear, unpeopled space they saved

it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace 

Of not being there.  They fed it, not with corn, 

but only with the possibility 

of being.  And that was able to confer


Such strength, its brow put forth a horn.  One horn.

Whitely it stole up to a maid, - to be 

within the silver mirror and in her. 

Rilke 'Sonnets to Orpheus'