It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.

And these Things,
which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient,
they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all.
They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart,
within - oh endlessly - within us! Whoever we may be at last.
Earth, isn't this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn't it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday?

All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.

A man has to live with himself, and he should see to it that he always has good company.

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

...Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.

O dieses ist das Tier, das es nicht giebt.
Sie wußtens nicht und habens jeden Falls
– sein Wandeln, seine Haltung, seinen Hals,
bis in des stillen Blickes Licht – geliebt.

Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie’s liebten, ward
ein reines Tier. Sie ließen immer Raum.
Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,
erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum

zu sein


È questo l’animale favoloso,
che non esiste. Non veduto mai,
ne amaron le movenze, il collo, il passo:
fino la luce dello sguardo calmo.
Pure “non era”. Ma perchè lo amarono,
divenne. Intatto. Gli lasciavan sempre
più spazio. E in quello spazio chiaro, etereo:
serbato a lui – levò, leggiero, il capo.

And here we have the creature that is not.
But they did not allow this , and as it happens
- his gait and bearing, his arched neck,
even the light in his eyes - they loved it all.

Yet truly he was not. But because they loved him
the beast was seen. And always they made room.
And in that space, empty and unbounded,
he raised an elegant head, yet hardly fought

for his existence.

Oh ! C'est elle, la bête qui n'existe pas.
Eux, ils n'en savaient rien, et de toutes façons
- son allure et son port, son col et même la lumière
calme de son regard - ils l'ont aimée.

Elle, c'est vrai, n'existait point. Mais parce qu'ils l'aimaient
bête pure, elle fut. Toujours ils lui laissaient l'espace.
Et dans ce clair espace épargné, doucement,
Elle leva la tête, ayant à peine besoin d'être.