LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET

he is to be called a religious poet. His whole life may be regarded,
in one sense, as an effort to pray truly, and his whole art as an
offering to God. At one time he compared himself to “a man
gathering mushrooms and healing herbs among weeds ; he looks
bent and busied about something of little worth, while round
about the tree trunks stand and adore. But the time will come
when I prepare the drink ; and that other time when I bring up
the brew in which everything is condensed and combined, all
that is most poisonous and deadly, for the sake of its strength ;
bring it up to God, that he may quench his thirst and feel his
splendour flowing in his veins” (Letters 1907-1914, p. 48).

NortE 18, PAGE 30

Kappus prints the sonnet in question at the end of the letter.
It might be the poem of any sincere but not particularly gifted
young man : it is neither very bad nor very good. The following
English version, by Frances Cornford, gives a fair enough
indication of its quality :

SONNET

Sorrow trembles down my spirit’s ways—
Uncomplaining, dark as night she seems ;
Snowy-pure, like blossom, are my dreams,
Consecration of my stillest days.

Often, though, the great unanswered Why
Bars my way, and I grow small and quake,
As before the waters of a lake

Whose deep waves I do not dare to try.

Then a grief descends on me more grey
Than a gleamless night of summer cloud,
Faintly lighted by one shimmering star.

My hands grope for love and lose their way;
There are sounds I long to pray aloud,
Yet my hot mouth knows not what they are.

NOTE 19, PAGE 31

The difficulty of love is a theme to which Rilke constantly
recurs ; it is impossible not to see in it some self-revelation,

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