Reading Rilke

When reading through Rilke I go on a difficult journey, 

And twist in my core over things that I love and detest. 

He freely associates like an aeolian harp, 

The winds of experience buffet his delicate soul, 

Or sometimes caress it and he cannot summon the strength 

To feel any certainty over the things that he feels, 

Finds questions, not answers, and so he goes rambling forth, 

Keeps hoping for some revelation to seize him and hold him 

But always the angel takes wing - and leaves him bereft.