Here is another quick and rough attempt: this is the first poem from Rilke's Book of Hours. I have been doing them in no particular order and they may well undergo more changes.
So the hour is closing and striking me
in its clear and metallic way:
my senses are trembling. I feel: I can,
I take hold of the pliable day.
Nothing was finished until seen by me
every becoming had stopped.
My glances are ripe, and whatever they want
comes to them like a bride.
Nothing's too small to me -- I love it still
and paint it on gold ground, and great
and hold it up high without knowing whose
soul it might liberate.