September 25, 2011

My Own Deep Soul

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


  1. I have a few of Rilke's poems on my website. He wrote quite a number of poems in French:

    Ce 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

  2. Wonderful! I certainly felt its power!

  3. the 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

  4. Magnificent! 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."


"Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Go ahead, bloom recklessly!