Classic Poetry Series
Rainer Maria Rilke
- poems -
Publication Date:
2004
Publisher:
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 onanswering our own wave...but what we feel is the wind in our faces.Translated by Robert BlyRainer Maria Rilke
Abishag
IShe lay, and serving-men her lithe arms took,And bound them round the withering old man,And on him through the long sweet hours she lay,And little fearful of his many years.And many times she turned amidst his beardHer face, as often as the night-owl screeched,And all that was the night around them reachedIts feelers manifold of longing fears.As they had been the sisters of the childThe stars trembled, and fragrance searched the room,The curtain stirring sounded with a signWhich drew her gentle glances after it.But she clung close upon the dim old man,And, by the night of nights not over-taken,Upon the cooling of the King she layMaidenly, and lightly as a soul.IIThe King sate thinking out the empty dayOf deeds accomplished and untasted joys,And of his favorite bitch that he had bredCBut with the evening Abishag was archedAbove him. His disheveled life lay bare,Abandoned as diffamed coasts, beneathThe quiet constellation of her breasts.But many times, as one in women skilled,he through his eyebrows recognized the mouthUnmoved, unkissed; and saw: the comet greenOf her desired reached not to where he lay.He shivered. And he listened like a hound,And sought himself in his remaining blood.Rainer Maria Rilke
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