Rainer Maria Rilke 4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926

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An underappreciated artist of consummate skill. His Sonnets to Orpheus are sublime.
The Song of the Dwarf Maybe my soul is straight and good, but she's got to lug my heart, my blood, which all hurts because it's crooked; its weight sends her staggering. She has no bed, she has no home, she merely hangs on my sharp bones, flapping her terrible wings. And my hands are completely shot, shriveled, worn: here, take a look at how they clammily, clumsily hop like rain-crazed toads. As for all the other stuff, it's all used up and sad and old— why doesn't God haul me out to the muck and let me drop. Is it because of my mug with its frowning mouth? So often I would itch to be luminous and free of fog but nothing would approach except big dogs. And the dogs got zilch. (Rainer Maria Rilke)
I am searching for the poem by M. R. Rilke in which he speaks about pushing thru solid rock.
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