Nights that have never been

Now shall I praise the cities, those
  long-surviving
(I watched them in awe) great constellations
  of earth.
For only in praising is my heart still
  mine, so violently
do I know the world. And even my
  lament
turns into a paean before my
  disconsolate heart.
Let no one say that I don’t love life,<br
  the eternal
presence: I puslate in her; she bears
  me, she gives me
the spaciousness of this day, the
  primeval workday
for me to make use of, and over my
  existence flings,
in her magnanimity, nights that have
  never been.
Her strong hand is above me, and if
  she should hold me under,
submerged in fate, I would have to
  learn how to breathe
down there. Even her most lightly-
  entrusted mission
would fill me with songs of her;
  although I suspect
that all she wants is for me to be
  vibrant as she is.
Once poets resounded over the battle-
  field; what voice
can outshout the rattle of his metallic
  age
that is struggling on toward its
  careening future?
And indeed it hardly requires the call,
  in its own battle-din
roars into song. So let me stand for
  a while
in front of the transient: not accusing,
  but once again
admiring, marveling. And if perhaps
  something founders
before my eyes and stirs me into
  lament,
it is not a reproach. Why shouldn’t
  more youthful nations
rush past the graveyard of cultures
  long ago rotten?
How pitiful it would be if greatness
  needed the slightest
indulgence. Let him whose soul is no
  longer startled
and transformed by palaces, by gardens’
  boldness, by the rising
and falling of ancient fountains, by
  everything held back
in paintings or by the infinite thereness
  of statues -
let such a person go out to his daily
  work, where
greatness is lying in ambush and
  someday, at some turn,
will leap upon him and force him to
  fight for his life.

Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. Stephen Mitchell, Fragment of an Elegy (Duino Elegies)

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