Rilke
Doth if not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
By Richard Le Gallienne
(The Passionate Reader To His Poet)
Rilke,
Gathering thunderstorms.
Unlike you or me.
So deep and hard into that muck
Where the tears dry,
He keeps his hand strong.
And you and me,
On that perilous corner,
Choking on powdered asphalt and
Dreams in the smoke,
And we're all teetering.
And me and him and you,
And all the angels of material,
Keep calling.
Calling his name
of green gardens.
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