"Again and again, however, we know the language of love, and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and the staggeringly secret abyss in which others find their ends:
Again and again the two of us go out under the ancient trees, make our bed again and again between the flowers, face to face with the skies."
This is Rilke. I wish I had written it for you.
(Shiver, by Maggie Stiefvater)