Rainer Maria Rilke

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

Rainer Maria Rilke Poems

41. For Hans Carossa 1/13/2003
42. From The Tenth Elegy 1/13/2003
43. Girl In Love 1/3/2003
44. Girl's Lament 1/13/2003
45. God Speaks To Each Of Us 4/3/2010
46. Going Blind 1/3/2003
47. Greek Love-Talk 1/3/2003
48. Growing Old 4/3/2010
49. Heartbeat 1/13/2003
50. I Am Much Too Alone In This World, Yet Not Alone 1/20/2003
51. I Am, O Anxious One 1/3/2003
52. Ignorant Before The Heavens Of My Life 1/3/2003
53. In The Beginning 1/13/2003
54. Interior Portrait 1/13/2003
55. Lady At A Mirror 1/13/2003
56. Lady On A Balcony 1/13/2003
57. Lament 1/3/2003
58. Lament (O How All Things Are Far Removed) 1/13/2003
59. Lament (Whom Will You Cry To, Heart?) 1/13/2003
60. Little Tear-Vase 1/13/2003
61. Loneliness 1/3/2003
62. Losing 4/3/2010
63. Love Song 1/3/2003
64. Moving Forward 1/3/2003
65. Music 1/13/2003
66. My Life 4/3/2010
67. Narcissus 1/3/2003
68. Night (O You Whose Countenance) 1/13/2003
69. Night (This Night, Agitated By The Growing Storm) 1/13/2003
70. On Hearing Of A Death 1/13/2003
71. Palm 1/3/2003
72. Parting 1/13/2003
73. Piano Practice 1/13/2003
74. Portrait Of My Father As A Young Man 1/3/2003
75. Put Out My Eyes 1/3/2003
76. Rememberance 1/13/2003
77. Sacrifice 1/13/2003
78. Self-Portrait 1/13/2003
79. Sense Of Something Coming 1/13/2003
80. Slumber Song 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Rainer Maria Rilke

A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.


Translated by Robert Bly

Read the full of A Walk

From The Tenth Elegy

Ah, but the City of Pain: how strange its streets are:
the false silence of sound drowning sound,
and there--proud, brazen, effluence from the mold of emptiness--
the gilded hubbub, the bursting monument.
How an Angel would stamp out their market of solaces,
set up alongside their church bought to order:
clean and closed and woeful as a post office on Sunday.
Outside, though, there's always the billowing edge of the fair.
Swings of Freedom! High-divers and Jugglers of Zeal!

[Hata Bildir]