word would have to well up out of the secure depths reposing in the stillness of deep slumber. Only a word from such a source could keep the prize secure in the richness and frailty of its simple being.
"No like of this these depths enfold."
And straight it vanished from my hand,
The treasure never graced my land ...
The frail rich prize, already plainly in hand, does not reach being as a thing, it does not come to be a treasure, that is, a poetically secured possession of the land. The poet remains silent about the prize which could not become a treasure of his land, but which yet granted to him an experience with language, the opportunity to learn the renunciation in whose self-denial the relation of word to thing promises itself to him. The "prize so rich and frail" is contrasted with "wonder or dream from distant land." If the poem is a poetic expression of Stefan George's own poetic way, we may surmise that the prize he had in mind was that sensitive abundance of simplicity which comes to the poet in his late years as what needs and assents to be said. The poem itself, which has turned out well, a lyric song of language, proves that he did learn the renunciation.
But as for us, it must remain open whether we are capable of entering properly into this poetic experience. There is the danger that we will overstrain a poem such as this by thinking too much into it, and thereby debar ourselves from being moved by its poetry. Much greater of course—but who today would admit it?—is the danger that we will think too little, and reject the thought that the true experience with language can only be a thinking experience, all the more so because the lofty poetry of all great poetic work always vibrates within a realm of thinking. But if what matters first of all is a thinking experience with language, then why this stress on a poetic experience? Because thinking in turn goes its ways in the neighborhood of poetry. It is well, therefore, to give thought