Rainer Maria Rilke
By Heinrich von Kleist’s lonely wintry forest grave in Wannsee
We are none lucider or blinder,
we are all searchers for a cure, —
and so you became perhaps the finder,
Kleist, impatient and obscure.
Small and anxious your days went,
until your woe wildly tore the last apart —
and we all carried your lament,
and we bore your gloomy heart.
And we stood often by deep ponds,
to whom the night drew near,
and we said farewell to our bonds,
and went to give our lovers dear
final roses of last year.
But apprehensively on eternity’s door
we learned to love the quiet and abide,
and we stayed in life and listened more,
still and deep and with saplings sore —
there our roots grew wide.
14th January 1898