Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

Tell all the truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --

The jaunty crop-haired graying  
Women in grocery stores,  
Their clothes boyish and neat,  
New mittens or clean sneakers,

Clean hands, hips not bad still,  
Buying ice cream, steaks, soda,  
Fresh melons and soap—or the big  
Balding young men in work shoes

And green work pants, beer belly  
And white T-shirt, the porky walk  
Back to the truck, polite; possible  
To feel briefly like Jesus,

A gust of diffuse tenderness  
Crossing the dark spaces
To where the dry self burrows  
Or nests, something that stirs,

Watching the kinds of people  
On the street for a while--
But how love falters and flags  
When anyone’s difficult eyes come

Into focus, terrible gaze of a unique  
Soul, its need unlovable: my friend  
In his divorced schoolteacher  
Apartment, his own unsuspected

Dance of the Blessed Spirits from Orpheus and Eurydice, composed by Christoph Willibald Gluck (sometimes known as "The Melodie") in different renditions.
I enjoy how Mark Hambourg and Guiomar Novaes play it. Rachmaninov's version gets a special mention because it is Rachnaminov and is shows, it is however  slightly too romantic a rendition for me.