Rainer Maria Rilke

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

Rainer Maria Rilke Poems

1. At The Brink Of Night 4/8/2015
2. Behind The Blameless Trees 3/2/2015
3. Falconry 4/3/2010
4. Growing Old 4/3/2010
5. The Song Of The Blindman 1/13/2003
6. The Song Of The Beggar 1/13/2003
7. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Vi 1/13/2003
8. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Iv 1/13/2003
9. The Song Of The Widow 1/13/2003
10. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xxv 1/13/2003
11. The Blindman's Song 1/3/2003
12. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Xxiii 1/13/2003
13. Venetian Morning 1/13/2003
14. The Last Supper 1/13/2003
15. Little Tear-Vase 1/13/2003
16. Palm 1/3/2003
17. The Neighbor 1/13/2003
18. Spanish Dancer 1/13/2003
19. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xix 1/13/2003
20. The Last Evening 1/13/2003
21. What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space 1/13/2003
22. From The Tenth Elegy 1/13/2003
23. Parting 1/13/2003
24. Losing 4/3/2010
25. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I 1/13/2003
26. For Hans Carossa 1/13/2003
27. Encounter In The Chestnut Avenue 1/13/2003
28. Song Of The Orphan 1/13/2003
29. To Lou Andreas-Salome 1/13/2003
30. Greek Love-Talk 1/3/2003
31. My Life 4/3/2010
32. God Speaks To Each Of Us 4/3/2010
33. The Sonnets To Orpheus: I 1/13/2003
34. Night (O You Whose Countenance) 1/13/2003
35. What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands? 1/13/2003
36. Piano Practice 1/13/2003
37. Lady On A Balcony 1/13/2003
38. The Apple Orchard 1/3/2003
39. Lament (O How All Things Are Far Removed) 1/13/2003
40. In The Beginning 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!

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