This sonnet of Rilke’s has always reminded me of Heather Harley (1959-2005) a Eurydice of sorts , described by Ungie as “adventurous” and her obituary as “vivacious,” both of which work for me…

XVIII

Dancing girl: transformation of all transience into steps:

how you offered it there.

And the arm-raised whirl at the end,

that tree made of motion,

didn’t it fully possess the pivoted year?

Didn’t it, so that your previous swirling might swarm

in the midst of it, suddenly blossom with stillness?

And above, wasn’t it sunshine, wasn’t it summer,

the warmth, the pure, immeasurable warmth

that you gave?

But it bore fruit also, it bore fruit, your tree of bliss.

Aren’t they here in their tranquil season: the jug,

whirling to ripeness, and the even more ripened vase?

And in the pictures: can’t we still see the drawing

which your eyebrow’s dark evanescent stroke

quickly inscribed on the surface of its own turning?