致青年诗人的一封信

致一位青年诗人的信Letters to a YoungPoet(3)英语美文Viareggio, near Pisa (Italy)April 23, 1903You gave me much pleasure, dear Sir, with your Easter letter; for it brought much good news of you, and the way you spoke about Jacobsen's great and beloved art showed me that I was not wrong to guide your fife and its many questions to this abundance.Now Niels Lyhne will open to you, a book of splendors and depths; the more often one reads it, the more everything seems to be contained within it, from life's most imperceptible fragrances to the full, enormous taste of its heaviest fruits. In it there is nothing that does not seem to have been understood, held, lived, and known in memory's wavering echo; no experience has been too unimportant, and the smallest event unfolds like a fate, and fate itself is like a wonderful, widefabric in which every thread is guided by an infinitely tender hand and laid alongside another thread and is held and supported by a hundred others. You will experience the great happiness of reading this book for the first time, and will move through its numberless surprises as if you were in a new dream.But I can tell you that even later on one moves through these books, again and again, with the same astonishment and that they lose none of their wonderful power and relinquish none of the overwhelming enchantment that they had the first time one read them.One just comes to enjoy them more and more, becomes more and more grateful, and somehow better and simpler in one's vision, deeper in one's faith in life, happier and greater in the way one lives.And later on, you will have to read the wonderful book of the fate and yearning of Marie Grubbe, and Jacobsen's letters and journals and fragments, and finally his verses which (even if they are just moderately well translated) live in infinite sound. (For this reason I would advise you to buy, when you can, the lovely Complete Edition of Jacobsen's works, which contains all of these. It is in three volumes, well translated, published by Eugen Diederichs in Leipzig, and costs, I think, only five or sixmarks per volume.)In your opinion of "Roses should have been here . . ." (that work of such incomparable delicacy and form) you are of course quite, quite incontestably right, as against the man who wrote the introduction. But let me make this request right away: Read as little as possible of literary criticism. Such things are either partisan opinions, which have become petrified and meaningless, hardened and empty of life, or else they are clever word-games, in which one view wins , and tomorrow the opposite view. Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them. Always trust yourself and your own feeling, as opposed to argumentation, discussions, or introductions of that sort; if it turns out that you are wrong, then the natural growth of your inner life will eventually guide you to other insights. Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be forced or hastened. Everything is gestation and then birthing. To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion, entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own understanding,and with deep humility and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!Richard Dehmel: My experience with his books (and also, incidentally, with the man, whom I know slightly) is that whenever I have discovered one of his beautiful pages, I am. always afraid that the next one will destroy the whole effect and change what is admirable into something unworthy. You have characterized him quite well with the phrase: "living and writing in heat." And in fact the artist's experience lies so unbelievably close to the sexual, to its pain and its pleasure, that the two phenomena are really just different forms of one and the same longing and bliss. And if instead of "heat" onecould say "sex";- sex in the great, pure sense of the word, free of any sin attached to it by the Church, - then his art would be very great and infinitely important. His poetic power is great and as strong as a primal instinct; it has its own relentless rhythms in itself and explodes from him like a volcano.But this power does not always seem completely straightforward and without pose. (But that is one of the most difficult tests for the creator: he must always remain unconscious, unaware of his best virtues, if he doesn't want to rob them of their candor and innocence!) And then, when, thundering through his being, it arrives at the sexual, it finds someone who is not so pure as it needs him to be. Instead of a completely ripe and pure world of sexuality, it finds a. world that is not human enough, that is only male, is heat, thunder, and restlessness, and burdened with the old prejudice and arrogance with which the male has always disfigured and burdened love. Because he loves only as a male, and not as a human being, there is something narrow in his sexual feeling, something that seems wild, malicious, time-bound, uneternal, which diminishes his art and makes it ambiguous and doubtful. It is not immaculate, it is marked by time and by passion, and little of it will endure. (But most art is like that!) Even so, onecan deeply enjoy what is great in it, only one must not get lost in it and become a hanger-on of Dehmel's world, which is so infinitely afraid, filled with adultery and confusion, and is far from the real fates, which make one suffer more than these time-bound afflictions do, but also give one more opportunity for greatness and more courage for eternity.Finally, as to my own books, I wish I could send you any of them that might give you pleasure. But I am very poor, and my books, as soon as they are published, no longer belong to me.I can’t even afford them myself and, as I would so often like to, give them to those who would be kind to them.So I am writing for you, on another slip of paper, the titles (and publishers) of my most recent books (the newest ones - all together I published perhaps 12 or 13), and must leave to you, dear Sir, to order one or two of them when you can.I am glad that my books will be in your hands.With best wishes,Yours,Rainer Maria Rilke亲爱的先生：您复活节的来信给我带来了许多快乐，它带来了您的不少好消息，还有您谈论杰克布森的伟大和受人爱戴的艺术时的方式。

给一位青年诗人的信（2）Letters to a Young Poet(2) Letter TwoViareggio, near Pisa (Italy)April 5, 1903You must pardon me, dear Sir, for waiting until today to gratefully remember your letter of February 24. I have been unwell all this time, not really sick, but oppressed by an influenza-like debility, which has made me incapable of doing anything. And finally, since it just didn't want to improve I came to this southern sea, whose beneficence helped me once before. But I am still not well, writing is difficult, and so you must accept these few lines instead of the letter I would have liked to send.Of course, you must know that every letter of yours will always give me pleasure, and you must be indulgent with the answer, which will perhaps often leave you empty-handed; for ultimately, and precisely in the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone; and many things must happen, many thingsmust go right, a whole constellation of events must be fulfilled, for one human being to successfully advise or help another. Today I would like to tell you just two more things:Irony: Don't let yourself be controlled by it, especially during uncreative moments. When you are fully creative, try to use it, as one more way to take hold of fife. Used purely, it too is pure, and one needn't be ashamed of it; but if you feel yourself becoming too familiar with it, if you are afraid of this growing familiarity, then turn to great and serious objects, in front of which it becomes small and helpless. Search into the depths of Things: there, irony never descends and when you arrive at the edge of greatness, find out whether this way of perceiving the world arises from a necessity of your being. For under the influence of serious Things it will either fall away from you (if it is something accidental), or else (if it is really innate and belongs to you) it will grow strong, and become a serious tool and take its place among the instruments which you can form your art with.And the second thing I want to tell you today is this:Of all my books, I find only a few indispensable, and two of them are always with me, wherever I am. They are here, by my side: the Bible, and the books of the great Danish poet Jens PeterJacobsen. Do you know his works? It is easy to find them, since some have been published in Recalm's Universal Library, in a very good translation. Get the little volume of Six Stories by J.P. Jacobsen and his novel Niels Lyhne, and begin with the first story in the for mer, which is cared "Mogens." A whole world will envelop you, the happiness, the abundance, .the inconceivable vastness of a world. Live for a while in these books, learn from them what you feel is worth learning, but most of &U love them. This love will be returned to you thousands upon thousands of times, whatever your life may become - it will, I am sure, go through the whole fabric of your being, as one of the most important threads among all the threads of your experiences, disappointments, and joys.If I were to say who has given me the greatest experience of the essence of creativity, its depths and eternity, there are just two names would mention: Jacobsen, that great, great poet, and Auguste Rodin, the sculptor, who is without peer among all artists who are alive today.And all success upon your path!Yours,Rainer Maria Rilke第二封您必须原谅我，亲爱的先生，原谅我到了今天才想起回复您2月24日的来信：我的身体在这段时间里一直不好，并不是真的病了，而是被一种象流行感冒一样的虚弱压迫着，使我无法做任何事情。

给青年诗人的信文学特点一、情感真挚且细腻给青年诗人的信充满了真挚的情感呢。

就像朋友之间在聊天，字里行间透着对青年诗人的关怀与鼓励。

不是那种高高在上的教导，而是一种平等的交流。

比如说里尔克在信中可能会分享自己对诗歌创作中遇到的困惑的感受，那种在艺术追求道路上的迷茫、孤独，他通过自己的经历来和青年诗人产生共鸣，这就让青年诗人读起来特别能感同身受，觉得自己不是一个人在战斗。

这种情感不是假大空的，而是非常具体，可能是对某一首诗的喜爱或者是对某一种创作手法的理解，就像在跟对方说“嘿，我懂你”。

二、语言简洁却富有深意信中的语言不会特别复杂，不会堆砌很多华丽的辞藻，但每一个词都用得恰到好处。

它不会让你读起来觉得吃力，就像我们平时聊天那样轻松自然。

可是简单的语言背后又藏着很多深刻的道理。

就像在谈论诗歌的意象时，可能用很平常的语言去描述一个意象的选择，但背后却是对诗歌整体意境的精准把握。

例如，可能会说“这个意象放在这里，就像在黑暗里点亮了一盏灯，让整首诗都有了方向”，用这样简单的比喻就把意象的重要性说得很透彻。

三、充满对诗歌创作的深度见解这些信是对诗歌创作方方面面的剖析。

从诗歌的灵感来源说起，可能会提到生活中的点滴都可以成为灵感的种子，比如一次旅行中看到的风景、遇到的人。

然后谈到诗歌的结构，不是那种刻板的规则，而是如何根据自己的情感和表达的需要去构建。

像是自由诗的结构就像是一条流动的河，没有固定的形状，但每一处的流淌都有它的意义。

在诗歌的表达上，也会探讨如何用独特的视角去看待世界，把平凡的事物写出不平凡的感觉。

就像看待一片落叶，不是只看到它的凋零，而是看到它曾经的生命历程，它与风的对话，与树的告别，把这些感受融入到诗歌中。

四、具有启发式的引导信里不会直接告诉青年诗人应该怎么做，而是用一种启发式的方式。

比如说，不是直接说“你要这样写才能写出好诗”，而是说“我曾经看到过这样一种景象，我当时有这样的感受，我尝试用这种方式去表达，你可以想想在你的经历里有没有类似的感觉”。

里尔克：《给青年诗人的十封信》（1－5）第一封信尊敬的先生，您的信前几天才转到我这里。

我要感谢你信里博大而亲爱的依赖。

此外我能做的事很少。

我不能评论你的诗艺；因为每个批评的意图都离我太远。

再没有比批评的文字那样同一件艺术品隔膜的了；同时总是演出来较多或较少的凑巧的误解。

一切事物都不是像人们要我们相信的那样可理解而又说得出的；大多数的事件是不可信传的，它们完全在一个语言从未达到过的空间；可是比一切更不可言传的是艺术品，它们是神秘的生存，它们的生命在我们无常的生命之外赓续着。

我既然预先写出这样的意见，可是我还得向你说，你的诗没有自己的特点，自然暗中也静静地潜伏着向着个性发展的趋势。

我感到这种情形最明显的是在最后一首《我的灵魂》里，这首诗字里行间显示出一些自己的东西。

还有在那首优美的诗《给卒琶地》也洋溢一种同这位伟大而寂寞的诗人精神上的契合。

虽然如此，你的诗本身还不能算什么，还不是独立的，就是那最后的一首和《给卒琶地》也不是。

我读你的诗感到有些不能明确说出的缺陷，可是你随诗寄来的亲切的信，却把这些缺陷无形中给我说明了。

你在信里问你的诗好不好。

你问我。

你从前也问过别人。

你把它们寄给杂志。

你把你的诗跟别人的比较；若是某些编辑部退回了你的试作，你就不安。

那么（因为你允许我向你劝告），我请你，把这一切放弃吧！你向外看，是你现在最不应该做的事。

没有人能给你出主意，没有人能够帮助你。

只有一个唯一的方法。

请你走向内心。

探索那叫你写的缘由，考察它的根是不是盘在你心的深处；你要坦白承认，万一你写不出来，是不是必得因此而死去。

这是最重要的：在你夜深最寂静的时刻问问自己：我必须写吗？你要在自身内挖掘一个深的答复。

若是这个答复表示同意，而你也能够以一种坚强、单纯的“我必须”来对答那个严肃的问题，那么，你就根据这个需要去建造你的生活吧；你的生活直到它最寻常最细琐的时刻，都必须是这个创造冲动的标志和证明。

然后你接近自然。

你要像一原人似地练习去说你所见、所体验、所爱、以及所遗失的事物。

致一位青年诗人的信 Letters to a YoungPoet(5)_英语美文RomeOctober 29, 1903Dear Sir,I received your letter of August 29 in Florence, and it has taken me this long two months to answer. Please forgive this tardiness, but I don’t like to write letters whil e I am traveling because for letter-writing I need more than the most necessary tools: some silence and solitude and a not too unfamiliar hour.We arrived in Rome about six weeks ago, at a time when it was still the empty, the hot, the notoriously feverish Rome, and this circumstance, along with other practical difficulties in finding a place to live, helped make the restlessness around us seem as if it would never end, and the unfamiliarity lay upon us with the weight of homelessness. In addition, Rome (if one has not yet become acquainted with it) makes one feel stifled with sadness for the first few days: through the gloomy and lifeless museum atmosphere that it exhales, through the abundance of its pasts, which are brought forth and laboriously held up (pasts on which a tiny present subsists), through theterrible overvaluing, sustained by scholars and philologists and imitated by the ordinary tourist in Italy, of all these disfigured and decaying Things, which, after all, are essentially nothing more than accidental remains from another time and from a life that is not and should not be ours. Finally, after weeks of daily resistance, one finds oneself somewhat composed again, even though still a bit confused, and one says to oneself: No, there is not more beauty here than in other places, and all these objects, which have been marveled at by generation after generation, mended and restored by the hands of workmen, mean nothing, are nothing, and have noheart and no value; but there is much beauty here, because every where there is much beauty. Waters infinitely full of life move along the ancient aqueducts into the great city and dance in the many city squares over white basins of stone and spread out in large, spacious pools and murmur by day and lift up their murmuring to the night, which is vast here and starry and soft with winds. And there are gardens here, unforgettable boulevards, and stair cases designed by Michelangelo, staircases constructed on the pattern of downward-gliding waters and, as they descend, widely giving birth to step out of step as if it were wave out of wave. Through such impressions one gathers oneself, wins oneself backfrom the exacting multiplicity, which speaks and chatters there (and how talkative it is!), and one slowly learns to recognize the very few Things in which something eternal endures that one can love and something solitary that one can gently take part in.I am still living in the city, on the Capitol, not far from the most beautiful equestrian statue that has come down to us from Roman art - the statue of Marcus Aurelius; but in a few weeks I will move into a quiet, simple room, an old summerhouse, which lies lost deep in a large park, hidden from the city, from its noises and incidents. There I will live all winter and enjoy the great silence, from which I expect the gift of happy, work-filled hours....From there, where I will be more at home, I will write you a longer letter, in which I win say something more about what you wrote me. Today I just need to tell you (and perhaps I am wrong not to have done this sooner) that the book you sent me (you said in your letter that it contained some works of yours) hasn’t arrived. Was it sent back to you, perhaps from Worpswede? (They will not forward packages to foreign countries.) This is the most hopeful possibility, and I would be glad to have it confirmed. I do hope that the package hasn’t been lost -unfortunately, the Italian mail service being what it is, that would not be anything unusual.I would have been glad to have this book (as I am to have anything that comes from you); and any poems that have arisen in the meantime I will always (if you entrust them to me) read and read again and experience as well and as sincerely as I can. With greetings and good wishes,Yours,Rainer Maria Rilke亲爱的先生：我在弗罗伦萨收到了您8月29日的信，但隔了这么长时间--两个月--之后才给您回复。

里尔克：《给青年诗人的十封信》：你要爱你的寂寞里尔克写给青年诗人的十封信，发之肺腑，深入心灵，对于喜好文学的人来说，这十封信，可说是文学创作之精髓了。

爱好文学的人自古至今为数众多，而今更是铺天盖地，文学接近民众原本是好事，然而如今的人所书所写却未必是真正的文学，浮躁忙碌喧嚣的时代，我们更应当如里尔克书中所言，要回归自己的内心。

在打开本书时，首先看到的是里尔克的孤独阴郁的脸。

对于里尔克，我坦诚不是很熟悉，只知道那几首非常著名的诗，对于文学，我只是一个缓慢的跟从者。

热爱文学的人，一般不会为这个看脸的社会所迷惑，然而每次读到作品，若看见作家长得帅气，总也不免流俗。

这是里尔克，我承认他的相貌过于阴郁忧愁，没有打动我，那是一张愁苦的脸，一张童年经历痛苦悲愁的脸。

于是先去了解他的生平。

果然如我所猜测，出生在平民家庭的他，父亲仕途不如意，脾气暴躁，母亲张扬虚荣整日幻想加入上流社会，在这样家庭中生活长大的里尔克自然谨小慎微，而姐姐一出生不久便夭折，母亲又把他当女孩来养，这样也使他的成长有了一些阴柔之气。

从他的脸上感到了深深的孤独。

可是孤独真的那么不讨人喜欢吗？“你要爱自己的寂寞，”在第四封信中，里尔克写给军官诗人，“你要负担起他，那以悠扬的怨诉给你引来的痛苦，当身边的人都同你疏远了，其实这就是你周围扩大的开始，因为你的矿源已经在星空下开展得很广大，你要以你的成长欢喜，可是向那里你不能带进来一个人”里尔克对于孤独是接受的，由此可见，我们知道诗人经历了怎样的心理变化。

如果排斥孤独，不接受生活送给自己的礼物，那么只会与生活格格不入，既然没办法选择生活，那么就去接受它，并好好的利用它，这就是里尔克的人生哲学，于是他把孤独变成了诗。

“要接受一切可能的生活，即使他令你不安，但那正是生活痛苦寂寞都是在生活接受它，把它变成实，即使没有朋友。

”这样的思想，也就是艺术文学创作者之所以能够在贫瘠的生活之上开出灿烂的文学之画的缘由。

里尔克对于创作的观点是要从日常生活中发事物去发现，让万物与心灵更贴近，要深幽寂静，谦虚真诚，假如你认为自己生活太贫乏，可是你还有回忆的宝库第一封信逝去的消沉了的动人的往事都可以为你提供丰富的写作素材，写诗要向内看，你的内心就是写作的源泉，这也是为什么写作的人要甘于寂寞的缘由。

读书笔记 | 亲身地、真实地生活《给青年诗人的信》“无论如何，生活本身是合理的。

”——里尔克莱内·马利亚·里尔克我们何其幸运，在青年时期读到了这些原本不是写给我们的信件。

1902年的深秋，一个名叫弗兰斯·克萨危尔·卡卜斯的陆军学校的学生，在偶然间经由校内牧师听闻了里尔克青少年时的故事，便当即决定将自己的诗的试作寄给里尔克，请教他关于诗歌创作的问题，以及如何在陆军军官和职业诗人两者之间进行选择。

在这一因缘际会之下，里尔克先后写给这位青年诗人十封文字拙朴而意涵深远的书信。

在其中，里尔克只为传达一个观点——我们必须亲身地、真实地生活。

这些信虽然是写给卡卜斯一人，但我们谁不是卡卜斯呢？谁在青年时期，没有无数问题与心绪在心中起伏呢？我们却不知如何厘清这些问题，也不知怎样处理此中心绪。

我们渴望且需要一位值得崇拜和信任的人的帮助。

1929年，在里尔克去世三年之后，收信人卡卜斯决定将这些书信编辑并出版成册——《给青年诗人的信》。

终于，里尔克的书信不是写给他一个人的，而是写给我们所有人。

我们要“亲身地”生活，走向自己的内心，从内心深处的冲动出发独立地建造自己的生活。

纵使里尔克回应了卡卜斯的问题并给出了自己的看法，在第一封信中，他依然恭敬地劝告，“没有人能给你出主意，没有人能够帮助你。

只有一个唯一的方法。

请你走向内心。

”这是阅读这十封信件前的第一规则。

常识告诉我们，问题的解答往往需要从外界获取，心绪则渴望一条向外的抒发渠道，我们聆听他人成功的事迹，希望从中吸取经验教训来过好自己的生活。

但人们越是希冀向外寻求、越是倚赖外界的标准，就越是遗忘了自己才是生活的出发点与主角、越是偏离了只属于自己的命运轨道。

成为陆军军官还是诗人？如何才能写出具有自己特色的诗歌？这个问题的答案还不能在当下得到，也不能从里尔克那里得到，里尔克甚至还提醒卡卜斯，写诗时不要采用流行的格式。

一个没有答案的问题自身却并不丧失其意义，这个问题构成了一个需要他用最真切的付出来完成的事件，一个他必须亲临其中并亲历亲为的场域——“亲身生活”。

给诗人的一封信800给诗人的一封信给诗人的一封信给诗人的一封信范文一敬爱的“诗仙”李白：1200多年前的你还好吗你是否还在为自己壮志难酬而满腔愤激你是否还在为自己年老无功而惆怅满怀呵呵，即使有再大的伤痛，再乱的愁思，你都能让它们溶解在一杯烈焰里，像黄河之水一样“不复回”吧。

岁月荏苒，1200年后，我坐在教室里给你写这封信：因为我仰慕你，我被你的气魄折服了。

我仰慕你的才华横溢。

“飞流直下三千尺，疑是银河落九天。

”巍巍香炉峰藏在云烟雾霭之中，浩浩庐山瀑如从云端飞流而下，临空而落。

纸上静止的文字似乎都具有了强烈的视觉冲击感。

入乎其内，出乎其外，有形有神，奔放空灵，可谓是无人能及。

洞庭烟波，赤壁风云，蜀道猿啼，浩荡江河，全都一下子飞扬起来。

诗里的你，洒脱自在，狂放不羁，豪气纵横像天上席卷的云气;诗里的你，神游八极，自由驰骋，酣畅洒脱如草原奔腾的骏马。

明代大家杨慎在《升庵诗话》中给予你盛赞“李白神于诗”，后世评论家冠于你“仙”，遂使你“诗仙”的雅号广为流传。

我仰慕你的自信乐观。

“天生我材必有用，千金散尽还复来。

”如此高度自信的惊人之句，能驱使金钱而不为金钱所使，真令凡夫俗子们咋舌。

正是你教会了我在面对挑战时要坚信：天生我材必有用，胜利非我莫属!要认识到自己的人生价值，竭力去做人生舞台上的主角;“长风破浪会有时，直挂云帆济沧海。

”不管前方的路有多崎岖坎坷，你仍然坚信总有一天，会长风破万里浪，挂云帆，济沧海，到达理想彼岸。

这也极大地激励了我在处于人生的低谷时战胜困难，走向辉煌的信心。

我仰慕你藐视权贵的铮铮傲骨与追求自由的无限豪情。

“安能摧眉折腰事权贵，使我不得开心颜。

”是啊，以你傲岸不屈的性格，在那种尔虞我诈，勾心斗角的官场里，怎能得“开心颜”呢你不愿阿谀奉承，也不愿与世俗同流合污;“仰天大笑出门去，我辈岂是蓬蒿人。

”你踌躇满志，渴望用世，但现实的黑暗幻灭了你的理想;你渴望自由，渴望解放，但封建礼教总是让你窒息。

桂梅写给青年照诗的一封信作文亲爱的青年照诗：你好呀！我是桂梅，一个经历过许多风雨，也见证过无数彩虹的普通人。

今天写这封信，是想跟你聊聊我的一些心里话。

我想先跟你讲讲我年轻时候的一件小事。

那时候，我生活在一个偏远的小山村，村子不大，四周都是连绵的青山。

我们村的交通特别不方便，去趟镇上都得走上好几里的山路。

村里的学校也很简陋，几间破旧的土房子就是教室。

有一年夏天，天气特别热，热得让人喘不过气来。

学校里唯一的一台风扇也坏了，孩子们上课的时候一个个热得满脸通红，汗水不停地往下流。

我看着心疼啊，就想着给孩子们弄点凉水擦擦脸降降温。

我拿着水桶去村里的水井打水，那水井离学校有一段距离，一路上太阳火辣辣地照在我身上，感觉自己都快被烤干了。

好不容易打到了水，我又急匆匆地往回走。

可没想到，半路上我不小心摔了一跤，水桶也滚出去老远，水洒了一大半。

当时我心里那个急呀，想着孩子们还在等着这水呢。

顾不上身上的疼，我赶紧爬起来去追水桶。

等我把剩下的水拎回学校，孩子们都围了过来，他们那一双双纯真的眼睛看着我，满是感激。

那一刻，我觉得自己受再多的累都值得。

这件事虽然很小，但它却让我明白了，只要心里装着别人，再小的付出也能带来大大的满足。

照诗啊，我知道你们年轻人现在生活的时代和我那时候大不一样了。

世界变得越来越精彩，也充满了各种各样的机会和挑战。

我想说的是，不管身处什么样的环境，都要有一颗善良和坚持的心。

就像当年我为孩子们打水，虽然过程有些曲折，但只要心中有那份爱和责任，就一定能走下去。

在追求梦想的道路上，可能会遇到很多困难和挫折。

有时候你会觉得累，觉得迷茫，这都很正常。

但千万不要轻易放弃，咬咬牙，挺过去，说不定前面就是一片光明。

还有啊，要珍惜身边的人，珍惜那些一起奋斗、一起欢笑的时光。

因为这些人和这些时光，会成为你生命中最宝贵的财富。

最后，希望你能一直保持着乐观积极的心态，勇敢地去追求自己的梦想，让自己的人生过得充实而有意义。

期待听到你的好消息！桂梅XXXX 年 XX 月 XX 日。

致一位青年诗人的信Letters to a YoungPoet(4)英语美文Worpswede, near BremenJuly 16, 1903About ten days ago I left Paris, tired and quite sick, and traveled to this great northern plain, whose vastness and silence and sky ought to make me well again. But I arrived during a long period of rain; this is the first day it has begun to let up over the restlessly blowing landscape, and I am taking advantage of this moment of brightness to greet you, dear Sir.My dear Mr. Kappus: I have left a letter from you unanswered for a long time; not because I had forgotten it - on the contrary: it is the kind that one reads again when one finds it among other letters, and I recognize you in it as if you were very near. It is your letter of May second, and I am sure you remember it. As I read it now, in the great silence of these distances, I am touched by your beautiful anxiety about life, even more than when I was in Paris, where everything echoesand fades away differently because of the excessive noise that makes Things tremble. Here, where I am surrounded by an enormous landscape, which the winds move across as they come from the seas, here I feel that there is no one anywhere who can answer for you those questions and feelings which, in their depths, have a life of their own; for even the most articulate people are unable to help, since what words point to is so very delicate, is almost unsayable. But even so, I think that you will not have to remain without a solution if you trust in Things that are like the ones my eyes are now resting upon. If you trust in Nature, in what is simple in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they werelocked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within you the possibility of creating and forming, as an especially blessed and pure way of living; train yourself for that but take whatever comes, with great trust, and as long as it comes out of your will, out of some need of your innermost self, then take it upon yourself, and don't hate anything. Sex is difficult; yes. But those tasks that have been entrusted to us are difficult; almost everything serious is difficult; and everything is serious. If you just recognize this and manage, out of yourself, out of your own talent and nature, out of your own experience and childhood and strength, to achieve a wholly individual relation to sex (one that is not influenced by convention and custom), then you will no longer have to be afraid of losing yourself and becoming unworthy of your dearest possession.Bodily delight is a sensory experience, not any different from pure looking or the pure feeling with , which a beautifulfruit fills the tongue; it is a great, an infinite learning that is given to us, a knowledge of the world, the fullness and the splendor of all knowledge. And it is not our acceptance of it that is bad; what is bad is that most people misuse this learning and squander it and apply it as a stimulant on the tired places of their lives and as a distraction rather than as a way of gathering themselves for their highest moments. People have even made eating into something else: necessity on the one hand, excess on the other; have muddied the clarity of this need, and all the deep, simple needs in which life renews itself have become just as muddy. But the individual can make them clear for himself and live them clearly (not the individual who is dependent, but the solitary man). He can remember that all beauty in animals and plants is a silent, enduring form of love and yearning, and he can see the animal, as he sees plants, patiently and willingly uniting and multiplying and growing, not out of physical pleasure, not out of physical pain, but bowing to necessities that are greater than pleasure and pain, and more powerful than will and withstanding. If only human beings could more humbly receive this mystery which the world is filled with, even in its smallest Things, could bear it, endure it, more solemnly, feelhow terribly heavy it is, instead of taking it lightly. If only they could be more reverent to ward their own fruitfulness, which is essentially one, whether it is manifested as mental or physical; for mental creation too arises from the physical, is of one nature with it and only like a softer, more enraptured and more eternal repetition of bodily delight. "The thought of being a creator, of engendering, of shaping" is nothing without its continuous great confirmation and embodiment in the world, nothing without the thousand-fold assent from Things and animals - and our enjoyment of it is so indescribably beautiful and rich only because it is full of inherited memories of the engendering and birthing of millions. In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love come to life again and fill it with majesty and exaltation. And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth, and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable. And they call forth the future; and even if they have made a mistake and embrace blindly, the future comes anyway, a new human being arises, and on the foundation of the accident that seems to be accomplished here, there awakens the law by which a strong, determinedseed forces its way through to the egg cell that openly advances to meet it. Don't be confused by surfaces; in the depths everything becomes law. And those who live the mystery falsely and badly (and they are very many) lose it only for themselves and nevertheless pass it on like a sealed letter, without knowing it. And don't be puzzled by how many names there are and how complex each life seems. Perhaps above them all there is a great motherhood, in the form of a communal yearning. The beauty of the girl, a being who (as you so beautifully say) "has not yet achieved anything," is motherhood that has a presentiment of itself and begins to prepare, becomes anxious, yearns. And the mother's beauty is motherhood that serves, and in the old woman there is a great remembering. And in the man too there is motherhood, it seems to me, physical and mental; his engendering is also a kind of birthing, and it is birthing when he creates out of his innermost fullness. And perhaps the sexes are more akin than people think, and the great renewal of the world will perhaps consist in one phenomenon: that man and woman, freed from all mistaken feelings and aversions, will seek each other not a opposites but as brother and sister, as neighbors, and will unite as human beings, in order to bear in common, simply,earnestly, and patiently, the heavy sex that has been laid upon them.But everything that may someday be possible for many people, the solitary man can now, already, prepare and build with his own hands, which make fewer mistakes. Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and try to sing out with the pain it causes you. For those who are near you are far away, you write, and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast. And if what is near you is far away, then your vastness is already among the stars and is very great; be happy about your growth, in which of course you can't take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don't torment them with your doubts and don't frighten them with your faith or joy, which they wouldn't be able to comprehend. Seek out some simple and true feeling of what you have in common with them, which doesn't necessarily have to alter when you yourself change again and again; when you see them, love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust. Avoid providing material for the drama, that is always stretched tight between parent and children; it uses up muchof the children's strength and wastes the love of the elders, which acts and warms even if it doesn't comprehend Don't ask for any advice from them and don't expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.It is good that you will soon be entering a profession that will make you independent and will put you completely on your own, in every sense. Wait patiently to see whether your innermost life feels hemmed in by the form this profession imposes. I myself consider it a very difficult and very exacting one, since it is burdened with enormous conventions and leaves very little room for a personal interpretation of its duties. But your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths. All my good wishes are ready to accompany you, and my faith is with you.Yours,Rainer Maria Rilke大概在十天前我离开了巴黎，又累又虚弱，旅行到这个伟大的北方平原，这平原的广阔、寂静和它的天空应该让我恢复健康吧。

给诗人的一封信的作文
尊敬的诗人：
哎，哥们儿，你的诗真的绝了！你的字儿一跳一跳的，就像是在跳舞，直接跳进我心里去了。

每次看你写的诗集，我就好像去了个异世界，那画面美得让人陶醉。

你知道吗？你写的自然景色，简直了！感觉我都能闻到山间清泉的清新，听到林子里鸟儿的歌声。

你笔下的海浪、晚霞，都像是有生命的一样，太美了！看完你的诗，我更加爱这个世界了。

还有啊，你写的人情世故，真是让人感慨万千。

人与人之间的关系，复杂又真实，你写得那么细腻，我都差点哭了。

你的诗让我思考人生，也让我更加珍惜身边的人和事。

你的语言风格真的独特，读起来像唱歌一样。

每个字、每个词都像是精心挑选的，放在一起就像是美妙的旋律。

看完你的诗，我更加觉得文字真的是有魔力的。

你写诗的过程，我一直觉得挺神秘的。

你说灵感来自生活，我
觉得你说得对。

你的诗里充满了对生活的热爱和对世界的探索，读起来就像是看到了自己内心的影子。

总之，哥们儿，你的诗是我心里的宝贝，每次读都让我感到特别舒服。

感谢你写出这么多美好的诗篇，给我们这些普通人带来了光。

希望你的创作之路越走越宽，你的诗能一直陪伴我们。

敬礼！
[你的名字]
[日期]。

晚上好，各位读书会的朋友们，也许您已守候多时，今天由我替班领读冯至翻译的里尔克的《给青年诗人的信》，原领读者是党玲芬老师，她由于时间关系无法亲自领读本书，因此暂由我代表，党老师很喜欢这本书，我资质有限，恐难以达到党老师对本书的理解高度，本次领读请大家积极发言，争取圆满完成本次领读任务。

奥地利作家20世纪德语世界最伟大的诗人欧洲现代最伟大的三位诗人之一德语文学史上唯一堪与荷尔德林比肩的诗哲里尔克曾说我的诗集就是我的坦白我一生的故事我的一生就是一场漫长的康复……孤独一如我历来的生活，甚至更甚。

诗人不断地旅行不断地道别漂泊成为他的宿命冯至（1905--1993）河北涿县人。

曾被鲁迅誉为“中国最为杰出的抒情诗人”。

曾任西南联大、北大教授，社科院外国文学研究所所长，中国作协副主席等。

有诗集《昨日之歌》、《十四行诗》等，论著《杜甫传》等。

冯至先生是“学贯中西”的一代宗师。

他既有国学的扎实功底，又有西学的深厚造诣。

他不但能用母语写出优美的诗歌、散文，而且具有古文的过硬基础，故他对中国古典文学也相当谙熟，尤对杜甫的研究卓有成就，以至拥有权威性的发言权。

在德国留学的五年里，他不仅攻读了德国文学，而且也攻读了德国哲学。

所以他关注的德国作家多是哲学味道较浓的诗人，除歌德、席勒、海涅外，他也关注带有“现代”特征的诗人：诺瓦利斯（这是他的博士论文的研究对象）、荷尔德林、里尔克等。

他翻译的上述古典名家的诗歌、散文和美学论著在我国拥有众多的读者；他翻译的里尔克《给一位青年诗人的九封信》最早向中国读者介绍了这位世界级的现代诗人，对中国现代诗歌的发展产生深远影响。

由于冯至先生在两个领域里的显著成就，他获得“双肩挑”的雅称。

毫不意外，上世纪六十年代初，中宣部在组织大学文科教材编写的时候，冯至以《中国文学史》与《欧洲文学史》总负责人的资格参与并领导这两部著作的编写工作。

一、里尔克的文字寂寞又忍耐，有一种沉默的力量，聊一聊书中触动你的句子。

致一位青年诗人的信作者：[奥]里尔克来源：《读写月报（高中版）》2020年第10期您問我，您这些诗写得好不好。

您问我，从前您也问过别人。

您把它们寄给杂志社。

您把它们同别人的诗进行比较。

若是有那么一些编辑部拒绝发表您的尝试之作，您会心犹未甘。

因为您让我给您出主意，那么，我现在就请求您放弃这一切。

尤其是在目前，您绝对不该求助于别人，没有人能给您出主意，没有人能帮助您，没有人。

只有一个办法——您要反省。

研究一下促使您写作的原因；检查一下这原因是否扎根于您心灵的最深处；坦率地承认，假如您不写，您是否一定会寻死。

最重要的是，您在夜深人静时，扪心自问：我非写不行吗？您要在自己身上去挖掘深刻的答案。

假如答案是肯定的，假如您以一个有力而干脆的“我非写不行”，来回答这个严肃的问题，那么您就得按照这种必要性来确立自己的生活；您的生活直至它的最无关紧要和最无足轻重的时刻，都必须成为这种冲动的标志和见证。

然后，您去接近自然。

然后，您设法像一个严肃认真的人那样，说出您的所见、所闻、所爱、所失。

您不要写爱情诗。

起初，您要避开那些最流行、最常见的形式，它们是最难驾驭的形式，因为面对大量优秀的，其中部分甚至是光彩照人的传统作品，您要写出自己的东西，须付出巨大而成熟的力气。

为此，您切勿陷入通常的题材里面，去写您的日常生活提供给您的题材；去描写您的悲哀和愿望，描写瞬息即逝的思想和关于任何一种美的信念。

您要怀着热忱和隐蔽、谦卑的真诚，描写这一切。

为了表现自己，您要撷取您身旁的事物、您梦中的景象和您记忆中的事件。

如果您的日常生活是贫乏的，您怪不得它。

您应该怪自己还不能像一个够格的诗人那样，唤醒它的财富，因为对于创造者来说，世界上没有贫乏，没有贫乏而无关紧要的地方。

即使您蹲在监狱里，它的墙壁使您听不见世界的喧嚣，那么您不是还有自己的童年这笔精美珍贵的财富、这座记忆的宝库吗？把您的注意力转到那方面去吧。

设法把这种从前被淹没的感受发掘出来；您的人格将得到巩固，您的孤独将得到扩展，变成一处远离世人喧哗的昏暗寓所。

致诗人的一封信给诗人的一封信亲爱的诗人，我在文字的花园中漫游，偶然间发现了你那灵动的诗篇，仿佛一道美丽的光芒，在黑暗的夜空中璀璨绽放。

我被你的句子吸引，被你的情感触动，仿佛陷入诗意的海洋中，感受到言语所无法形容的美妙。

从你的作品中，我看到了你对生命的独特感悟，你将琐碎的点滴与世事的纷扰融入其中，形成了一幅幅细腻的画面。

你的诗句如同一支调色笔，将人生的酸甜苦辣勾勒得淋漓尽致。

我为你的敏锐与洞察力所折服，也为你的才思与执着所敬佩。

你的诗歌是一首首动人的乐章，用韵脚和音律编织而成，每一个音符、每一段旋律都打动着我的心弦。

读你的诗，我仿佛置身于大自然的怀抱中，用心去感受每一个微风拂面的感觉，每一片叶落的声音。

你用诗歌为世界赋予了生命和魔力，让我重新发现了生活中的美好与奇迹。

尊敬的诗人，你的诗篇不仅描绘了自然的美妙，也流露出你对人类的关怀和思索。

你的诗歌是一面镜子，映照出人们内心的情感和挣扎。

你用字词娓娓道来，用诗句撩拨着人们的心弦，让读者在文字的海洋中寻觅到心灵的归宿。

在这个喧嚣的世界里，你用你的诗歌点亮了无数个灵魂。

你的创作不仅仅是为了艺术本身，更是一种对人性、对生命、对自然的热爱与探索。

你如同一个航海者，驾驭着文字的船只，在诗歌的海洋中追寻无尽的诗意。

诗人啊，感谢你用你的诗篇给了我一种无法言喻的美妙。

我向往你的创作热情和对生命的敬畏，你的诗歌让我看到了美好与希望。

我希望你能继续用你的文字为这个世界注入力量与激情，让那些被遗忘的情感再次绽放。

最后，再次向你致以崇高的敬意，期待你更多灵感的闪现。

衷心的读者。

此时，风静静吹着，一勾月亮缓缓探出，隐约能见着那周遭的云轮廓了。

晚风有些凉，似是将声音也冻缓了，带来片刻寂静，让人不免有些清冷，思绪自然地向内心深处钻去。

内心世界里，除去孤寂，便是这清冷月光。

于是我想要用这清冷月光来问候你，希望您也能从焦躁或麻木中走出，获得这片刻的宁静，亲爱的先生。

我想用这从莱内·马力亚·里尔克信中所学到的问候方式问候正在阅读这份文字的你，希望你能带着这名为“有趣”的第一印象去接触我文字中那执着于感受孤寂、让时间自己走来、自身向内心走去的里尔克去，了解他笔下的可爱及伟大。

浅读《给一个青年诗人的十封信》，首先能感受到的便是里尔克对一个向其寻求写诗意见的陌生青年的亲切、包容与关爱。

“每个批评的意图都离我太远”、“报答你的信赖于万一”他在发表自己意见前后如此说道，使人在思考其意见时忍不住便接受了其温柔的教导。

就在这短短十封给那陌生青年的回信间，我看到了里尔克对诗与艺术、两性的爱、生活与职业的独特见解，也见证了一个陌生青年诗人由僵硬刻画到感受生活的成长。

他在诗的方面对青年的教导即使在我草草读来也觉得收获良多。

“没有人能给你出主意，没有人能够帮助你。

只有唯一的一个方法。

请走向内心”了解自己的内心是他做任何事都不可缺少的一环，写诗亦是如此，里克尔教导青年用深幽、寂静、谦虚的真诚描写悲哀与愿望，流逝的思想与对美的信念，其中的真诚尤为重要。

在真诚之下，暗嘲反讽的手法也能自然地描述伟大而严肃的事物，“纯洁地用，它就是纯洁的”。

在我看来，这是一种无意的装腔作势，是自然的混元境地。

就像现今网络上常有的“阴阳”语气，如果是本性的需要，它便会成为严正的工具，是属于自己的创作艺术，如鲁迅一般。

里尔克的这个观点同样用到了两性之爱上，“身体的快感是一种官感体验，与洁净的观赏或是一个甜美的果实放在舌上无二”。

抛去社会对性爱的重重掩饰，将它从一个阴暗信封中拿出，彼时性爱将不再是被“神秘”“羞耻”所包裹的禁忌，从自身出发而不被世俗影响，它便是温存，是生命的延续。

给一位青年诗人的信（1）Letters to a Young Poet(1)It's a book you'll read countless times and each time will seem like the first time.Letters To A Young Poet are ten letters written to a young man about to enter the German military. His name was Franz Kappus, he was 19 years old, and he wrote Rilke looking for guidance and a critique of some of his poems. Rilke was himself only 27 when the first letter was written. The resulting five year correspondence is a virtual owner's manual on what it is (and what is required) to be an artist and a person.Letter OneParisFebruary 17, 1903Dear Sir,Your letter arrived just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the great confidence you have placed in me. That is all I can do. I cannot discuss your verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me. Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more orless fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsay able than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.With this note as a preface, may I just tell you that your verses have no style of their own, although they do have silent and hidden beginnings of something personal. I feel this most clearly in the last poem, "My Soul." There, some thing of your own is trying to become word and melody. And in the lovely poem "To Leopardi" a kind of kinship with that great, solitary figure does perhaps appear. Nevertheless, the poems are not yet anything in themselves, not yet any thing independent, even the last one and the one to Leopardi. Your kind letter, which accompanied them managed to make clear to me various faults that I felt in reading your verses, though I am not able to name them specifically.You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want myadvice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. 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. Don't write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in somekind 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 no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sound - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attention 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. So, dear Sir, I can't give you any advice but this: to go into yourself andsee how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to, the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.But after this descent into yourself and into your solitude, perhaps you will have to renounce becoming a poet (if, as I have said, one feels one could live without writing, then one shouldn't write at all). Nevertheless, even then, this self searching that I ask of you will not have been for nothing. Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.What else can I tell you? It seems to me that everything has its proper emphasis; and finally I want to add just one more bit of advice: to keep growing, silently and earnestly, through your whole development; you couldn't disturb it any more violently than by looking outside and waiting for outsideanswers to questions that only your innermost feeling, in your quietest hour, can perhaps answer.It was a pleasure for me to find in your letter the name of Professor Horacek; I have great reverence for that kind, learned man, and a gratitude that has lasted through the years. Will you please tell him how I feel; it is very good of him to still think of me, and I appreciate it.The poem that you entrusted me with, I am sending back to you. And I thank you once more for your questions and sincere trust, of which, by answering as honestly as I can, I have tried to make myself a little worthier than I, as a stranger, really am. Yours very truly,Rainer Maria Rilke亲爱的先生：您的信在几天前就到了这里。