Leo Tolstoy, by Leonid Pasternak
You, my own deep soul,
trust me. I will not betray you.
My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.
What mystery breaks over me now?
In its shadow I come into life.
For the first time I am alone with you—
you, my power to feel.
From The Book of Hours I, 39
I have a few of Rilke's poems on my website. He wrote quite a number of poems in French:
ReplyDeleteCe soir mon coeur fait chanter
des anges qui se souviennent...
Une voix, presque mienne,
par trop de silence tentée,
monte et se décide
à ne plus revenir;
tendre et intrépide,
à quoi va-t-elle s'unir?
Alexandre Fabbri
KIESLOWSKI'S WORLD
Wonderful! I certainly felt its power!
ReplyDeletethe mystery of feeling..... awareness of any kind comes as a mystery at first, a shadow coming into life. it's interesting that rilke separates it from himself. "my power". steven
ReplyDeleteMagnificent! I think that many, if not most, of those who come to these pages hear those voices telling us that we are "made for longing."
ReplyDelete