Rainer Maria Rilke
Rainer Maria Rilke Poems
|121.||What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands?||1/13/2003|
|123.||Woman In Love||1/3/2003|
|124.||World Was In The Face Of The Beloved||1/13/2003|
|125.||You Who Never Arrived||1/3/2003|
|127.||You, You Only, Exist||1/3/2003|
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
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!