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 Beggar 1/13/2003
6. The Song Of The Widow 1/13/2003
7. The Song Of The Blindman 1/13/2003
8. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xxv 1/13/2003
9. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Iv 1/13/2003
10. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Xxiii 1/13/2003
11. The Neighbor 1/13/2003
12. The Last Evening 1/13/2003
13. Venetian Morning 1/13/2003
14. The Last Supper 1/13/2003
15. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Vi 1/13/2003
16. Palm 1/3/2003
17. What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands? 1/13/2003
18. Losing 4/3/2010
19. The Blindman's Song 1/3/2003
20. The Apple Orchard 1/3/2003
21. Song Of The Orphan 1/13/2003
22. Spanish Dancer 1/13/2003
23. To Lou Andreas-Salome 1/13/2003
24. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xix 1/13/2003
25. What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space 1/13/2003
26. My Life 4/3/2010
27. From The Tenth Elegy 1/13/2003
28. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I 1/13/2003
29. For Hans Carossa 1/13/2003
30. Encounter In The Chestnut Avenue 1/13/2003
31. Solemn Hour 1/3/2003
32. The Unicorn 1/3/2003
33. The Sonnets To Orpheus: I 1/13/2003
34. Night (O You Whose Countenance) 1/13/2003
35. Water Lily 1/13/2003
36. Little Tear-Vase 1/13/2003
37. The Poet 1/3/2003
38. Lady On A Balcony 1/13/2003
39. Elegy Iv 1/3/2003
40. Self-Portrait 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

Slumber Song

Some day, if I should ever lose you,
will you be able then to go to sleep
without me softly whispering above you
like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

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