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 Widow 1/13/2003
6. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Vi 1/13/2003
7. The Neighbor 1/13/2003
8. The Song Of The Blindman 1/13/2003
9. The Song Of The Beggar 1/13/2003
10. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xxv 1/13/2003
11. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Iv 1/13/2003
12. The Last Evening 1/13/2003
13. Palm 1/3/2003
14. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Xxiii 1/13/2003
15. Song Of The Orphan 1/13/2003
16. My Life 4/3/2010
17. Venetian Morning 1/13/2003
18. The Blindman's Song 1/3/2003
19. Little Tear-Vase 1/13/2003
20. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I 1/13/2003
21. The Sonnets To Orpheus: I 1/13/2003
22. What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space 1/13/2003
23. Losing 4/3/2010
24. The Last Supper 1/13/2003
25. Lady On A Balcony 1/13/2003
26. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xix 1/13/2003
27. Solemn Hour 1/3/2003
28. The Unicorn 1/3/2003
29. Sacrifice 1/13/2003
30. Encounter In The Chestnut Avenue 1/13/2003
31. Put Out My Eyes 1/3/2003
32. Portrait Of My Father As A Young Man 1/3/2003
33. Lady At A Mirror 1/13/2003
34. Telling You All 1/3/2003
35. Spanish Dancer 1/13/2003
36. Lament (O How All Things Are Far Removed) 1/13/2003
37. Night (This Night, Agitated By The Growing Storm) 1/13/2003
38. Song 1/13/2003
39. What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands? 1/13/2003
40. The Spanish Dancer 1/3/2003
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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