From Heidegger’s The Origin of the Work of Art. Hofstadter translation

The artwork lets us know what shoes are
in truth. Art a circle; circles in this circle.
Artworks shipped like coal from the Ruhr,
Hölderlin’s hymns packed in soldier’s knapsacks
during the First World War. Beethoven’s
quartets lie in storerooms like potatoes in a cellar.
The far-spreading, ever-uniform furrows
of the field swept by a raw wind. A thingly
thing-being, the loneliness of the field-path
as evening falls. A workly work-being,
the silent call of the fallow desolation
of the wintry field. The certainty of bread.
The menace of death. We hesitate to call God
a hankering after the irrational, an alien
philosophy. What is pregiven to the poet
and how is it given, so that it can be regiven
in the poem? Light shining, to and into.
This shining, the work, is the beautiful.
As a world opens the earth towers ecstatic,
entry into Being: Whenever art happens,
history begins, or starts over again. Art
breaks open an open place in openess
such as never was before and never will come to be
again. The luster of metal, the clang of color;
names to glow, tones to sing, words to say:
The world worlds. The work as work
sets up a world. The work holds open
the door: Art is truth setting itself to work.