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We are the bees of the invisible. We madly gather the honey of the visible to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.

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
Golden
Hives
Invisible
Madly
Great
Gather
Bees
Store
Honey
Stores
Visible
Hive

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Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.
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Children are still the way you were as a child, sad and happy in just the same way-and if you think of your childhood, you once again live among them, among the solitary children.
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It is part of the nature of every definitive love that sooner or later it can reach the beloved only in infinity.
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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 you will stay close to nature, to its simplicity, to the small things hardly noticeable, those things can unexpectedly become great and immeasurable.
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If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees. Instead we entangle ourselves in knots of our own making and struggle, lonely and confused. So like children, we begin again... to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly. (from the poem How Sure Gravity's Law)
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Love the questions, themselves.
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Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows.
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God... sat down for a moment when the dog was finished in order to watch it... and to know that it was good, that nothing was lacking, that it could not have been made better.
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A billion stars go spinning through the night, / glittering above your head, / But in you is the presence that will be / when all the stars are dead.
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Where I create, there I am true.
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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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You who let yourselves feel: enter the breathing That is more than your own. Let it brush your cheeks As it divides and rejoins behind you. The trees you planted in childhood have grown Too heavy. You cannot bring them along. Give yourselves to the air, to what you cannot hold.
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But there is much beauty here, because there is much beauty everywhere.
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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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Let your beauty manifest itself without talking and calculation. You are silent. It says for you: I am. And comes in meaning thousandfold, comes at long last over everyone.
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Be forever dead in Eurydice-more gladly arise into the seamless life proclaimed in your song. Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days, be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.
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Where something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable, there we also stand always already quite near its transformation.
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Dying is strange and hard if it is not our death, but a death that takes us by storm, when we've ripened none within us.
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Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.
Rainer Maria Rilke