Translating Rilke, III.6

From The Book of Hours, III.6
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O Lord, grant to each his own death.
The dying discharged from each life:
   by the love one gained,
   the meaning made and
   anguish that remained.

Translating Rilke, I.40

From The Book of Hours, I.40
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I have hymns I keep to myself.

Though the celestory of my being looms high above you,
my soul bows with you at the rail. You perceive me to be
too grand for you but I am not. You barely discern me
from among all the others kneeling with you.

You graze like a flock of sheep while I watch among you
until evening draws you home. Then I return with you
in the sound of muffled hooves on the bridge,
hiding my own return in the steam rising from your backs.