Suddenly she steps, sheathed in wind,
brightly into brilliance, as if singled out,
while now the room as though cut to fit
behind her fills the door

darkly like the background of a cameo,
that lets a glimmer through at the edges;
and you’d think the evening wasn’t there
before she stepped out, and on the railing

sets forth just a little of herself,
just her hands, —to be completely light:
as if passed on by the rows of houses
to the heavens, to be moved by everything.

Rilke - “Woman at Balcony”