by Rainer Maria Rilke,
translated by Mark Olival-Bartley
There he lay. His pale face, propped up, then fell
to balk at the steepness of the pillow
as the world and what of it one can know
were being ripped from his senses ever so,
relapsing through a year of listless hell.
Those who saw him then did not know the grace
with which he was at one with all of this—
because this: This depth, this meadow, and this
water transmogrified his deluged face.
On his face, there came indeed a vast tide
wanting him and looking for him with care;
his mask is, with the fear no longer there,
as tender and open as the inside
of a fruit spoiling in the outside air.
Der Tod des Dichters
von Rainer Maria Rilke