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|
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
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!