November 18, 2011


Brooklyn Bridge
by Edward Steichen

How far from us everything is,
and long gone.
I think the star whose light
reaches me now
has been dead for thousands of years.

I think I heard
in the boat that went by
something anxious being said.

In a house, a clock
has struck the hour...
In which house?
I would like to go out from my heart
and stand under the great sky.
I would like to pray.
One of all those stars
must surely still live.

I think I used to know
which star may have kept on shining—
which one, like a white city,
rises still at the far end of its light.

Book of Images

1 comment:

  1. This one proves the difficulties of translation (Mr. Mitchell does things differently, and not always "correctly", than here), but I love this poem because of that white city still shining in the heavens somewhere at the end of Light.

    No matter what words are used, no one can harm Rilke's beauty.


"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!