Rainer Maria Rilke

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

Rainer Maria Rilke Poems

81. Solemn Hour 1/3/2003
82. Song 1/13/2003
83. Song Of The Orphan 1/13/2003
84. Song Of The Sea 1/13/2003
85. Spanish Dancer 1/13/2003
86. Sunset 1/3/2003
87. Telling You All 1/3/2003
88. The Apple Orchard 1/3/2003
89. The Blindman's Song 1/3/2003
90. The Future 1/13/2003
91. The Grown-Up 1/13/2003
92. The Last Evening 1/13/2003
93. The Last Supper 1/13/2003
94. The Lovers 1/3/2003
95. The Neighbor 1/13/2003
96. The Panther 1/3/2003
97. The Poet 1/3/2003
98. The Sisters 1/3/2003
99. The Song Of The Beggar 1/13/2003
100. The Song Of The Blindman 1/13/2003
101. The Song Of The Widow 1/13/2003
102. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I 1/13/2003
103. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Vi 1/13/2003
104. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Xiii 1/13/2003
105. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: Xxiii 1/13/2003
106. The Sonnets To Orpheus: I 1/13/2003
107. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Iv 1/13/2003
108. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xix 1/13/2003
109. The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xxv 1/13/2003
110. The Spanish Dancer 1/3/2003
111. The Swan 1/13/2003
112. The Unicorn 1/3/2003
113. The Voices 1/13/2003
114. The Wait 1/13/2003
115. To Lou Andreas-Salome 1/13/2003
116. To Music 1/13/2003
117. To Say Before Going To Sleep 1/3/2003
118. Venetian Morning 1/13/2003
119. Water Lily 1/13/2003
120. What Birds Plunge Through Is Not The Intimate Space 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!

[Hata Bildir]