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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=480310" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'<br>hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly<br>pressed me against his heart, I would perish<br>in the embrace of his stronger existence.<br>For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror<br>which we are barely able to endure and are awed<br>because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.<br>Each single angel is terrifying.<br>And so I force myself, swallow and hold back<br>the surging call of my dark sobbing.<br>Oh, to whom can we turn for help?<br>Not angels, not humans;<br>and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel<br>little secure and at home in our interpreted world.<br>There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside<br>daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us<br>stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.<br>Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind<br>full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.<br>Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,<br>gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the<br>solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?<br>Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the <br>emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds<br>will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star<br>waited for you to espy it and sense its light.<br>A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,<br>or as you walked below an open window,<br>a violin gave itself to your hearing.<br>All this was trust. But could you manage it?<br>Were you not always distraught by expectation,<br>as if all this were announcing the arrival<br>of a beloved? (Where would you find a place<br>to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts <br>coming and going and often staying for the night.)<br>When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;<br>for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.<br>Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and<br>desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving<br>than those gratified. Begin ever new again<br>the praise you cannot attain; remember:<br>the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall<br>was for him only a pretext for achieving<br>his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers<br>back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be<br>achieved a second time.<br>Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel<br>from that far intenser example of loving:<br>&quot;Ah, might I become like her!&quot; Should not their oldest<br>sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?<br>Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves<br>from the beloved and, quivering, endured:<br>as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,<br>and in this tense release becomes more than itself.<br>For staying is nowhere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints<br>have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them<br>clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,<br>kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was<br>their listening. Not that you could endure<br>the voice of God -far from it! But listen<br>to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message<br>that forms itself out of silence. They sweep<br>toward you now from those who died young.<br>Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,<br>did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently<br>as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?<br>What do they want of me? to quietly remove<br>the appearance of suffered injustice that,<br>at times, hinders a little their spirits from<br>freely proceeding onward.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,<br>to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;<br>not to observe roses and other things that promised<br>so much in terms of a human future, no longer<br>to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;<br>to even discard one's own name as easily as a child<br>abandons a broken toy.<br>Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.<br>Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering<br>so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work<br>and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a<br>trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make<br>the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.<br>Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish<br>between moving among the living or the dead.<br>The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,<br>through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in<br>its thunderous roar.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the end the early departed have no longer<br>need of us. One is gently weaned from things<br>of this world as a child outgrows the need<br>of its mother's breast. But we who have need <br>of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is<br>so often the source of spiritual growth,<br>could we exist without them?<br>Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning<br>in the midst of the mourning for Linos?<br>the daring first sounds of song piercing<br>the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space<br>an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,<br>and the emptiness felt for the first time<br>those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture<br>and comfort and help us.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rainer+Maria+Rilke">Rainer Maria Rilke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=480310" data-title="Elegy I de Rainer Maria Rilke" data-description="Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we ar..."></div>
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