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