Part 2

In _New Poems_ (1907) and _New Poems, Second Part_ (1908) the historical figure, frequently taken from the Old Testament, has grown beyond the proportions of life; it is weightier with fate and invariably becomes the means of expressing symbolically an abstract thought or a great human destiny. _Abishag_ presents the contrast between the dawning and the fading life; _David Singing Before Saul_ shows the impatience of awakening ambition, and _Joshua_ is the man who forces even God to do his will. The antique Hellenic world rises with shining splendour in the poems _Eranna to Sappho_, _Lament for Antinous_, _Early Apollo_ and the _Archaic Torso of Apollo_.

The spirit of the Middle Ages with its religious fervour and superstitious fanaticism is symbolized in several poems, the most important among which are _The Cathedral_, _God in the Middle Ages_, _Saint Sebastian_ personifying martyrdom, and _The Rose Window_, whose glowing magic is compared to the hypnotic power of the tiger's eye. Modern Paris is often the background of the _New Poems_, and the crass play of light and shadow upon the waxen masks of Life's disillusioned in the Morgue is caught with the same intense realistic vision as the flamingos and parrots spreading their vari-coloured soft plumage in the warmth of the sun in the Avenue of the Jardin des Plantes.

Almost all of the poems in these two volumes are short and precise. The images are portrayed with the sensitive intensity of impressionistic technique. The majestic quietude of the long lines of _The Book of Pictures_ is broken, the colours are more vibrant, more scintillating and the pictures are painted in nervous, darting strokes as though to convey the manner in which they were perceived: in one single, all-absorbing glance. For this reason many of these _New Poems_ are not quite free from a certain element of virtuosity. On the other hand, Rilke achieves at times a perfect surety of rapid stroke as in the poem _The Spanish Dancer_, who rises luminously on the horizon of our inner vision like a circling element of fire, flaming and blinding in the momentum of her movements. Degas and Zuloaga seem to have combined their art on one canvas to give to this dancer the abundant elasticity of grace and the splendid fantasy of colour.

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Many of the themes in the _New Poems_ bear testimony to the fact that Rilke travelled extensively, prior to the writing of these volumes, in Italy, Germany, France, and Scandinavia. His book on the five painters at the artists' colony at Worpswede, where he remained for a time, entirely given over to the observation of the atmosphere, the movement of the sky and the play of light upon the far heath of this northern landscape, is an introduction to every interpretation of the work of landscape painters and a tender poem to a land whose solitary and melancholy beauty entered into his own work.

More vital than the influence of the personalities and the art treasures of the countries which Rilke visited and more potent in its effect upon his creations, like a great sun over the most fruitful years of his life, stands the towering personality of Auguste Rodin. The _New Poems_ bear the dedication: "A mon grand ami, Auguste Rodin," indicating the twofold influence which the French sculptor wielded over the poet, that of a friend and that of an artist.

One recalls the broad, solidly-built figure of Rodin with his rugged features and high, finely chiselled forehead, moving slowly among the white glistening marble busts and statues as a giant in an old legend moves among the rocks and mountains of his realm, patient, all-enduring, the man who has mastered life, strong and tempered by the storms of time. And one thinks of Rainer Maria Rilke, young, blond, with his slender aristocratic figure, the slightly bent-forward figure of one who on solitary walks meditates much and intensely, with his sensitive full mouth and the "firm structure of the eyebrow gladly sunk in the shadow of contemplation," the face full of dreams and with an expression of listening to some distant music.

From no other book of his, not excepting _The Book of Hours_, can we deduce so accurate a conception of Rilke's philosophy of Life and Art as we can draw from his comparatively short monograph on Auguste Rodin.

Rilke sees in Rodin the dominant personification in our age of the "power of servitude in all nature." For this reason the book on Rodin is far more than a purely æsthetic valuation of the sculptor's work; Rilke traces throughout the book the strongly ethical principle which works itself out in every creative act in the realm of art. This grasp of the deeper significance of all art gives to the book on Rodin its well-nigh religious aspect of thought and its hymnlike rhythm of expression. 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.

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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.

They all resemble one another, In God's garden they are silent Like many, many intervals In His mighty melody.

But when they spread their wings They awaken the winds That stir as though God With His far-reaching master hands Turned the pages of the dark book of Beginning.

SOLITUDE

Solitude is like a rain That from the sea at dusk begins to rise; It floats remote across the far-off plain Upward into its dwelling-place, the skies, Then o'er the town it slowly sinks again. Like rain it softly falls at that dim hour When ghostly lanes turn toward the shadowy morn; When bodies weighed with satiate passion's power Sad, disappointed from each other turn; When men with quiet hatred burning deep Together in a common bed must sleep-- Through the gray, phantom shadows of the dawn Lo! Solitude floats down the river wan ...

KINGS IN LEGENDS

Kings in old legends seem Like mountains rising in the evening light. They blind all with their gleam, Their loins encircled are by girdles bright, Their robes are edged with bands Of precious stones--the rarest earth affords-- With richly jeweled hands They hold their slender, shining, naked swords.

THE KNIGHT

The Knight rides forth in coat of mail Into the roar of the world. And here is Life: the vines in the vale And friend and foe, and the feast in the hall, And May and the maid, and the glen and the grail; God's flags afloat on every wall In a thousand streets unfurled.

Beneath the armour of the Knight Behind the chain's black links Death crouches and thinks and thinks: "When will the sword's blade sharp and bright Forth from the scabbard spring And cut the network of the cloak Enmeshing me ring on ring-- When will the foe's delivering stroke Set me free To dance And sing?"

THE BOY

I wish I might become like one of these Who, in the night on horses wild astride, With torches flaming out like loosened hair On to the chase through the great swift wind ride. I wish to stand as on a boat and dare The sweeping storm, mighty, like flag unrolled In darkness but with helmet made of gold That shimmers restlessly. And in a row, Behind me in the dark, ten men that glow With helmets that are restless, too, like mine, Now old and dull, now clear as glass they shine. One stands by me and blows a blast apace On his great flashing trumpet and the sound Shrieks through the vast black solitude around Through which, as through a wild mad dream we race. The houses fall behind us on their knees, Before us bend the streets and them we gain, The great squares yieled to us and them we seize-- And on our steeds rush like the roar of rain.

INITIATION

Whosoever thou art! Out in the evening roam, Out from thy room thou know'st in every part, And far in the dim distance leave thy home, Whosoever thou art. Lift thine eyes which lingering see The shadows on the foot-worn threshold fall, Lift thine eyes slowly to the great dark tree That stands against heaven, solitary, tall, And thou hast visioned Life, its meanings rise Like words that in the silence clearer grow; As they unfold before thy will to know Gently withdraw thine eyes--

THE NEIGHBOUR

Strange violin! Dost thou follow me? In many foreign cities, far away, Thy lone voice spoke to me like memory. Do hundreds play thee, or does but one play?

Are there in all great cities tempest-tossed Men who would seek the rivers but for thee,

Who, but for thee, would be forever lost? Why drifts thy lonely voice always to me? Why am I the neighbour always Of those who force to sing thy trembling strings? Life is more heavy--thy song says-- Than the vast, heavy burden of all things.

SONG OF THE STATUE

Who so loveth me that he Will give his precious life for me? I shall be set free from the stone If some one drowns for me in the sea, I shall have life, life of my own,-- For life I ache.

I long for the singing blood, The stone is so still and cold. I dream of life, life is good. Will no one love me and be bold And me awake?

I weep and weep alone, Weep always for my stone. What joy is my blood to me If it ripens like red wine? It cannot call back from the sea The life that was given for mine, Given for Love's sake.

MAIDENS. I

Others must by a long dark way Stray to the mystic bards, Or ask some one who has heard them sing Or touch the magic chords. Only the maidens question not The bridges that lead to Dream; Their luminous smiles are like strands of pearls On a silver vase agleam.

The maidens' doors of Life lead out Where the song of the poet soars, And out beyond to the great world-- To the world beyond the doors.

MAIDENS. II

Maidens the poets learn from you to tell How solitary and remote you are, As night is lighted by one high bright star They draw light from the distance where you dwell.

For poet you must always maiden be Even though his eyes the woman in you wake Wedding brocade your fragile wrists would break, Mysterious, elusive, from him flee.

Within his garden let him wait alone Where benches stand expectant in the shade Within the chamber where the lyre was played Where he received you as the eternal One.

Go! It grows dark--your voice and form no more His senses seek; he now no longer sees A white robe fluttering under dark beech trees Along the pathway where it gleamed before.

He loves the long paths where no footfalls ring, And he loves much the silent chamber where Like a soft whisper through the quiet air He hears your voice, far distant, vanishing.

The softly stealing echo comes again From crowds of men whom, wearily, he shuns; And many see you there--so his thought runs-- And tenderest memories are pierced with pain.

THE BRIDE

Call me, Beloved! Call aloud to me! Thy bride her vigil at the window keeps; The evening wanes to dusk, the dimness creeps Down empty alleys of the old plane-tree.

O! Let thy voice enfold me close about, Or from this dark house, lonely and remote, Through deep blue gardens where gray shadows float I will pour forth my soul with hands stretched out ...

AUTUMNAL DAY

Lord! It is time. So great was Summer's glow: Thy shadows lay upon the dials' faces And o'er wide spaces let thy tempests blow.

Command to ripen the last fruits of thine, Give to them two more burning days and press The last sweetness into the heavy wine.

He who has now no house will ne'er build one, Who is alone will now remain alone; He will awake, will read, will letters write Through the long day and in the lonely night; And restless, solitary, he will rove Where the leaves rustle, wind-blown, in the grove.

MOONLIGHT NIGHT

South-German night! the ripe moon hangs above Weaving enchantment o'er the shadowy lea. From the old tower the hours fall heavily Into the dark as though into the sea-- A rustle, a call of night-watch in the grove, Then for a while void silence fills the air; And then a violin (from God knows where) Awakes and slowly sings: Oh Love ... Oh Love ...

IN APRIL

Again the woods are odorous, the lark Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings Them at the windows in a radiant shower, And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; And cradled in the branches, hidden deep In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD

The darkness hung like richness in the room When like a dream the mother entered there And then a glass's tinkle stirred the air Near where a boy sat in the silent gloom.

The room betrayed the mother--so she felt-- She kissed her boy and questioned "Are you here?" And with a gesture that he held most dear Down for a moment by his side she knelt.

Toward the piano they both shyly glanced For she would sing to him on many a night, And the child seated in the fading light Would listen strangely as if half entranced,

His large eyes fastened with a quiet glow Upon the hand which by her ring seemed bent And slowly wandering o'er the white keys went Moving as though against a drift of snow.

DEATH

Before us great Death stands Our fate held close within his quiet hands. When with proud joy we lift Life's red wine To drink deep of the mystic shining cup And ecstasy through all our being leaps-- Death bows his head and weeps.

THE ASHANTEE (Jardin d'Acclimatation, Paris)

No vision of exotic southern countries, No dancing women, supple, brown and tall Whirling from out their falling draperies To melodies that beat a fierce mad call;

No sound of songs that from the hot blood rise, No langorous, stretching, dusky, velvet maids Flashing like gleaming weapon their bright eyes, No swift, wild thrill the quickening blood pervades.

Only mouths widening with a still broad smile Of comprehension, a strange knowing leer At white men, at their vanity and guile, An understanding that fills one with fear.

The beasts in cages much more loyal are, Restlessly pacing, pacing to and fro, Dreaming of countries beckoning from afar, Lands where they roamed in days of long ago.

They burn with an unquenched and smothered fire Consumed by longings over which they brood, Oblivious of time, without desire, Alone and lost in their great solitude.

REMEMBRANCE

Expectant and waiting you muse On the great rare thing which alone To enhance your life you would choose: The awakening of the stone, The deeps where yourself you would lose.

In the dusk of the shelves, embossed Shine the volumes in gold and browns, And you think of countries once crossed, Of pictures, of shimmering gowns Of the women that you have lost.

And it comes to you then at last-- And you rise for you are aware Of a year in the far off past With its wonder and fear and prayer.

MUSIC

What play you, O Boy? Through the garden it stole Like wandering steps, like a whisper--then mute; What play you, O Boy? Lo! your gypsying soul Is caught and held fast in the pipes of Pan's flute.

And what conjure you? Imprisoned is the song, It lingers and longs in the reeds where it lies; Your young life is strong, but how much more strong Is the longing that through your music sighs.

Let your flute be still and your soul float through Waves of sound formless as waves of the sea, For here your song lived and it wisely grew Before it was forced into melody.

Its wings beat gently, its note no more calls, Its flight has been spent by you, dreaming Boy! Now it no longer steals over my walls-- But in my garden I'd woo it to joy.

MAIDEN MELANCHOLY

A young knight comes into my mind As from some myth of old.

He came! You felt yourself entwined As a great storm would round you wind. He went! A blessing undefined Seemed left, as when church-bells declined And left you wrapt in prayer. You fain would cry aloud--but bind Your scarf about you and tear-blind Weep softly in its fold.

A young knight comes into my mind Full armored forth to fare.

His smile was luminously kind Like glint of ivory enshrined, Like a home longing undivined, Like Christmas snows where dark ways wind, Like sea-pearls about turquoise twined, Like moonlight silver when combined With a loved book's rare gold.

MAIDENS AT CONFIRMATION

(Paris in May, 1903)

The white veiled maids to confirmation go Through deep green garden paths they slowly wind; Their childhood they are leaving now behind: The future will be different, they know.

Oh! Will it come? They wait--It must come soon! The next long hour slowly strikes at last, The whole house stirs again, the feast is past, And sadly passes by the afternoon ...

Like resurrection were the garments white The wreathed procession walked through trees arched wide Into the church, as cool as silk inside, With long aisles of tall candles flaming bright: The lights all shone like jewels rich and rare To solemn eyes that watched them gleam and flare.

Then through the silence the great song rose high Up to the vaulted dome like clouds it soared, Then luminously, gently down it poured-- Over white veils like rain it seemed to die.

The wind through the white garments softly stirred And they grew vari-coloured in each fold And each fold hidden blossoms seemed to hold And flowers and stars and fluting notes of bird, And dim, quaint figures shimmering like gold Seemed to come forth from distant myths of old.

Outside the day was one of green and blue, With touches of a luminous glowing red, Across the quiet pond the small waves sped. Beyond the city, gardens hidden from view Sent odors of sweet blossoms on the breeze And singing sounded through the far off trees.

It was as though garlands crowned everything And all things were touched softly by the sun; And many windows opened one by one And the light trembled on them glistening.

THE WOMAN WHO LOVES

Ah yes! I long for you. To you I glide And lose myself--for to you I belong. The hope that hitherto I have denied Imperious comes to me as from your side Serious, unfaltering and swift and strong.

Those times: the times when I was quite alone By memories wrapt that whispered to me low, My silence was the quiet of a stone Over which rippling murmuring waters flow.

But in these weeks of the awakening Spring Something within me has been freed--something That in the past dark years unconscious lay, Which rises now within me and commands And gives my poor warm life into your hands Who know not what I was that Yesterday.

PONT DU CARROUSEL

Upon the bridge the blind man stands alone, Gray like a mist veiled monument he towers As though of nameless realms the boundary stone About which circle distant starry hours.

He seems the center around which stars glow While all earth's ostentations surge below.

Immovably and silently he stands Placed where the confused current ebbs and flows; Past fathomless dark depths that he commands A shallow generation drifting goes....

MADNESS

She thinks: I am--Have you not seen? Who are you then, Marie? I am a Queen, I am a Queen! To your knee, to your knee!

And then she weeps: I was--a child-- Who were you then, Marie? Know you that I was no man's child, Poor and in rags--said she.

And then a Princess I became To whom men bend their knees; To princes things are not the same As those a beggar sees.

And those things which have made you great Came to you, tell me, when? One night, one night, one night quite late, Things became different then.

I walked the lane which presently With strung chords seemed to bend; Then Marie became Melody And danced from end to end.

The people watched with startled mien And passed with frightened glance For all know that only a Queen May dance in the lanes: dance!...

LAMENT