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(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926 / Prague / Czech Republic)

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The Poet

O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love. I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich
and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: alone, home, life, love

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  • Jagannath rao Adukuri (11/24/2008 4:58:00 PM)

    'All things to which I give myself grow rich
    and leave me spent, impoverished, alone'
    Amusing reflection of Rilke, who is usually not so self-glorifying.Whatever he gives himself to becomes richer and in the process he loses a bit of himself each time! May be, he is not thinking that way.perhaps, what he means is whenever he takes up something he enriches it till he becomes poor himself. But the key word is not 'impoverished' but 'alone' The more you you put heart and soul into an artistic project or a scientific pursuit, the more lonely you feel, deep within.

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