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Rainer Rilke
René Maria Rilke
winter born. winter fade.
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Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) is considered the greatest lyric poet of modern Germany. His work is marked by a mystical sense of God and death.
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Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. by David Ferry, from “Song of the Little Creeple at the Street Corner,”
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Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke,
“Love Song”
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Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Poetry of Rilke; “Parting” (tr. Edward Snow)
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“Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all- ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? (…) If you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity. (…) Draw near to nature. Then try, like some first human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose.”
-Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (translation by M.D. Hester Norton)
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“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.”
Mythical Aesthetics || Angels
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Rainer Maria Rilke, from a letter to Ellen Key, 22 December 1903.
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Four Houses as Famous Poems
Ravenclaw: O Me! O Life! By Walt Whitman
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Hufflepuff: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Gryffindor: Night (O you whose countenance) by Rainer Maria Rilke
Night.
O you whose countenance, dissolved
in deepness, hovers above my face.
You who are the heaviest counterweight
to my astounding contemplation.
Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes,
but in itself strong;
inexhaustible creation, dominant,
enduring beyond the earth’s endurance;
Night, full of newly created stars that leave
trails of fire streaming from their seams
as they soar in inaudible adventure
through interstellar space:
how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness,
I appear minute!—
Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth,
I dare to be in you.
Slytherin: The Best Thing in the World by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What’s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you’re loved again.
What’s the best thing in the world?
—Something out of it, I think.
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Jean-Luc Godard, Prénom Carmen, 1983.
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.”
- Rainer Maria Rilke
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