Rainer Maria Rilke
Onto a Vast Plain
You are not surprised at the force of the storm—you have seen it growing. The trees flee. Their flight sets the boulevards streaming. And you know: the One whom they flee is the one you move toward. All your senses sing Her, as you stand at the window. The weeks stood still in summer. The trees' blood rose. Now you feel it wants to sink back into the source of everything. You thought you could trust that power when you plucked the fruit: now it becomes a riddle again and you again a stranger. Summer was like your house: you know where each thing stood. Now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain. Now the immense loneliness begins. The days go numb, the wind sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves. Through the empty branches though the sky remains. It is what you have. Be earth now, and evensong. Be the ground lying under that sky. Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real, so that the One who began it all can feel you when She reaches for you. |
Dear Darkening Ground
Dear Darkening Ground, you’ve endured so patiently the walls we’ve built, perhaps you’ll give the cities one more hour and grant the churches and cloisters two. And those that labor—let their work grip them another five hours, or seven, before you become forest again, and water, and widening wilderness in that hour of inconceivable terror when you take back your name from all things. Just give me a little more time! I want to love the things as no one has thought to love them, until they’re real and worthy of You. Book of Hours, I 61 |