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Trees do not force their sap, nor does the flower push its bloom.

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
Bloom
Push
Trees
Flower
Tree
Force
Doe
Sap

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If only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful.
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Leave to your opinions their own quiet undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressed or hurried by anything.
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When we are only victorious over small things, it leaves us feeling small.
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There are so many things about which some old man ought to tell one while one is little for when one is grown one would know them as a matter of course.
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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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If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself, Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth.
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It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.
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If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches for the Creator, there is no poverty.
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Perhaps somewhere, someplace deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.
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We are unutterably alone essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important.
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She followed slowly, taking a long time, As though there were some obstacles in the way And yet: as though, once it was overcome, She would be beyond all walking, and would fly.
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I am like a child who awakes At the light, so safe and secureFree from night's fears when dawn breaks, In Thee I am ever secure.
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Who is there today who still cares about a well-finished death? No one. Even the rich, who could after all afford this luxury, are beginning to grow lazy and indifferent the desire to have a death of one's own is becoming more and more rare. In a short time it will be as rare as a life of one's own.
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Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.
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only someone who is ready for everything, who doesn't exclude any experience, even the most incomprehensible, will live the relationship with another person as something alive and will himself sound the depths of his own being.
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I want to love the things as no one has thought to love them.
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It is clear that we must embrace struggle. Every living thing conforms to it. Everything in nature grows and struggles in its own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost, against all resistance.
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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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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.
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