Poems

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.

To the Editors of Poetry--A magazine of Verse, and Poet Lore, the translator is indebted for permission to reprint certain poems in this book--also to the compilers of the following anthologies--Amphora II edited by Thomas Bird Mosher--The Catholic Anthology of World Poetry selected by Carl van Doren.

Thou Anxious One! And dost thou then not hear Against thee all my surging senses sing? About thy face in circles drawing near My thought floats like a fluttering white wing.

"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."

* * * * *

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

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.

Dost thou not see, before thee stands my soul In silence wrapt my Springtime's prayer to pray? But when thy glance rests on me then my whole Being quickens and blooms like trees in May.

The process of Art is on the one hand sensuous, the conception having for its basis the fineness of organization of the senses; and on the other hand it is severely scientific, the value of the creation being dependent upon the craftsmanship, the mastery over the tool, the technique.

Art, like Nature, its great and only reservoir for all time past and all time to come, ever strives for elimination and selection. It is severe and aristocratic in the application of its laws and impervious to appeal to serve other than its own aims. Its purpose is the symbolization of Life. In its sanctum there reigns the silence of vast accomplishment, the serene, final, and imperturbable solitude which is the ultimate criterion of all great things created.

That god-- who was the wanderer, the slim Despoiler of fair women; he--the wise,-- But sweet and glowing as your thoughts of him Who cast a shadow over your young limb While bending like your arched brows o'er your eyes.

By day Thou are the Legend and the Dream That like a whisper floats about all men, The deep and brooding stillnesses which seem, After the hour has struck, to close again.

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.

_New Poems:_ Early Apollo The Tomb of a Young Girl The Poet The Panther Growing Blind The Spanish Dancer Offering Love Song Archaic Torso of Apollo