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How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?

Rainer Maria Rilke

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Rainer Maria Rilke
Age: 51 †
Born: 1875
Born: December 4
Died: 1926
Died: December 29
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Praha
René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
René Maria Cäsar Rilke
Rainer Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
Li-erh-kʻo
Rainer Maria Rielke
René Rilke
Rainer Mariyah Rilḳeh
Rainŏ Maria Rilkʻe
Reiner Marie Rilke
Rene Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke
Rene Rilke
Soul
Enough
Raise
Things
Raises
Touch
High
Keep
Doesn
Past

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The only journey is the one within.
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For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)-they are experiences.
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Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetiness into the heavenly wine.
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Fame is finally only the sum total of all the misunderstanding that can gather around a new name.
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To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums, joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.
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Strangely, I heard a stranger say, I am with you.
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But suppose the endlessly dead were to wake in us some emblem: they might point to the catkins hanging from the empty hazel trees, or direct us to the rain descending on black earth in early spring. --- And we, who always think of happiness rising, would feel the emotion that almost baffles us when a happy thing falls.
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All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy.
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Understand, I'll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I'll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows with only this one dream: You come too.
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The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
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Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.
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I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.
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Just keep going - no feeling is final.
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Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life
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They, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture that rises up from the depths of time.
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