MARY VIRGIN
How came, how came from out thy night
Mary, so much light
And so much gloom:
Who was thy bridegroom?
How came, how came from out thy night
Mary, so much light
And so much gloom:
Who was thy bridegroom?
Rilke - Poems
He
begins: "Rodin was solitary before fame came to him, and afterward he
became perhaps still more solitary. For fame is ultimately but the
summary of all misunderstandings that crystallize about a new name. " And
he sums up this one man's greatness: "Sometime it will be realized what
has made this great artist so supreme. He was a worker whose only desire
was to penetrate with all his forces into the humble and the difficult
significance of his tool. Therein lay a certain renunciation of life but
in just this renunciation lay his triumph--for Life entered into his
work. "
Rodin became to Rilke the manifestation of the divine principle of the
creative impulse in man. Thus Rilke's monograph on Auguste Rodin will
remain the poet's testament on Life and Art.
* * * * *
Rilke has lived deeply; he has absorbed into his artistic and spiritual
consciousness many of the supreme values of our time. His art holds the
mystic depth of the Slav, the musical strength of the German, and the
visual clarity of the Latin. As artist, he has felt life to be sacred,
and as a priest, he has brought to its altar many offerings.
H. T.
NEW YORK CITY,
AUTUMN, 1918.
FIRST POEMS
EVENING
The bleak fields are asleep,
My heart alone wakes;
The evening in the harbour
Down his red sails takes.
Night, guardian of dreams,
Now wanders through the land;
The moon, a lily white,
Blossoms within her hand.
MARY VIRGIN
How came, how came from out thy night
Mary, so much light
And so much gloom:
Who was thy bridegroom?
Thou callest, thou callest and thou hast forgot
That thou the same art not
Who came to me
In thy Virginity.
I am still so blossoming, so young.
How shall I go on tiptoe
From childhood to Annunciation
Through the dim twilight
Into thy Garden.
THE BOOK OF PICTURES
PRESAGING
I am like a flag unfurled in space,
I scent the oncoming winds and must bend with them,
While the things beneath are not yet stirring,
While doors close gently and there is silence in the chimneys
And the windows do not yet tremble and the dust is still heavy--
Then I feel the storm and am vibrant like the sea
And expand and withdraw into myself
And thrust myself forth and am alone in the great storm.
AUTUMN
The leaves fall, fall as from far,
Like distant gardens withered in the heavens;
They fall with slow and lingering descent.
And in the nights the heavy Earth, too, falls
From out the stars into the Solitude.
Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall
And lo! the other one:--it is the law.
But there is One who holds this falling
Infinitely softly in His hands.
SILENT HOUR
Whoever weeps somewhere out in the world
Weeps without cause in the world
Weeps over me.
Whoever laughs somewhere out in the night
Laughs without cause in the night
Laughs at me.
Whoever wanders somewhere in the world
Wanders in vain in the world
Wanders to me.
Whoever dies somewhere in the world
Dies without cause in the world
Looks at me.
THE ANGELS
They all have tired mouths
And luminous, illimitable souls;
And a longing (as if for sin)
Trembles at times through their dreams.
begins: "Rodin was solitary before fame came to him, and afterward he
became perhaps still more solitary. For fame is ultimately but the
summary of all misunderstandings that crystallize about a new name. " And
he sums up this one man's greatness: "Sometime it will be realized what
has made this great artist so supreme. He was a worker whose only desire
was to penetrate with all his forces into the humble and the difficult
significance of his tool. Therein lay a certain renunciation of life but
in just this renunciation lay his triumph--for Life entered into his
work. "
Rodin became to Rilke the manifestation of the divine principle of the
creative impulse in man. Thus Rilke's monograph on Auguste Rodin will
remain the poet's testament on Life and Art.
* * * * *
Rilke has lived deeply; he has absorbed into his artistic and spiritual
consciousness many of the supreme values of our time. His art holds the
mystic depth of the Slav, the musical strength of the German, and the
visual clarity of the Latin. As artist, he has felt life to be sacred,
and as a priest, he has brought to its altar many offerings.
H. T.
NEW YORK CITY,
AUTUMN, 1918.
FIRST POEMS
EVENING
The bleak fields are asleep,
My heart alone wakes;
The evening in the harbour
Down his red sails takes.
Night, guardian of dreams,
Now wanders through the land;
The moon, a lily white,
Blossoms within her hand.
MARY VIRGIN
How came, how came from out thy night
Mary, so much light
And so much gloom:
Who was thy bridegroom?
Thou callest, thou callest and thou hast forgot
That thou the same art not
Who came to me
In thy Virginity.
I am still so blossoming, so young.
How shall I go on tiptoe
From childhood to Annunciation
Through the dim twilight
Into thy Garden.
THE BOOK OF PICTURES
PRESAGING
I am like a flag unfurled in space,
I scent the oncoming winds and must bend with them,
While the things beneath are not yet stirring,
While doors close gently and there is silence in the chimneys
And the windows do not yet tremble and the dust is still heavy--
Then I feel the storm and am vibrant like the sea
And expand and withdraw into myself
And thrust myself forth and am alone in the great storm.
AUTUMN
The leaves fall, fall as from far,
Like distant gardens withered in the heavens;
They fall with slow and lingering descent.
And in the nights the heavy Earth, too, falls
From out the stars into the Solitude.
Thus all doth fall. This hand of mine must fall
And lo! the other one:--it is the law.
But there is One who holds this falling
Infinitely softly in His hands.
SILENT HOUR
Whoever weeps somewhere out in the world
Weeps without cause in the world
Weeps over me.
Whoever laughs somewhere out in the night
Laughs without cause in the night
Laughs at me.
Whoever wanders somewhere in the world
Wanders in vain in the world
Wanders to me.
Whoever dies somewhere in the world
Dies without cause in the world
Looks at me.
THE ANGELS
They all have tired mouths
And luminous, illimitable souls;
And a longing (as if for sin)
Trembles at times through their dreams.
