Ronald, this makes me think of a section of Rilke’s 9th Elegy:

Praise the world to the angel, not the unutterable world; you cannot astonish him with your glorious feelings; in the universe, where he feels more sensitively, you’re just a beginner.

Therefore, show him the simple thing that is shaped in passing from father to son, that lives near our hands and eyes as our very own.

Tell him about the Things. He’ll stand amazed, as you stood beside the rope-maker in Rome, or the potter on the Nile.

Show him how happy a thing can be, how blameless and ours; how even the lamentation of sorrow purely decides to take form, serves as a thing, or dies in a thing, and blissfully in the beyond escapes the violin.

And these things that live, slipping away, understand that you praise them; transitory themselves, they trust us for rescue, us, the most transient of all. They wish us to transmute them in our invisible heart — oh, infinitely into us! Whoever we are.