2006-10-27 - 9:47 AM

sonnet IV

o you lovers that are so gentle, step occasionally
into the breath of the sufferers not meant for you
let it be parted by your cheeks
it will tremble, joined again, behind you

you have been chosen, you are sound and whole
you are like the very first beat of the heart
you are the bow that shoots the arrows and also their target
in tears your smile would glow forever

do not be afraid to suffer, give
the heaviness back to the weight of the earth
mountains are heavy, seas are heavy

even those trees you planted as children
became too heavy long ago--you couldn't carry them now
but you can carry the winds... and the open spaces

sonnet VIII

where praise already is is the only place Grief
ought to go, that water spirit of the pools of tears;
she watches over our defeats to make sure
the water rises clear from the same rock

that holds up the huge doors and the altars
You can see, around her motionless shoulders, a feeling
dawns--we sense more and more that she
is the youngest of the three sisters we have inside.

Rejoicing has lost her doubts, and Longing broods on her error,
only Grief still learns; she spends the whole night
counting up our evil inheritance with her small hands.

She is awkward, but all at once
she makes our voice rise, sideways, like a constellation
into the sky, not troubled by her breath.

-Rilke

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