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   °¡À»³¯                                      Herbsttag
   °¡À»¿¡                                     Herbst
   µÎÀ̳ëÀÇ ºñ°¡ 1                         Duineser Elegien 1(çÈæ»)
   ¿À ÁÖ¿© ´©±¸¿¡°Ô³ª
   ´ç½ÅÀº ¹Ì·¡À̽ʴϴ٠                Du Bist Die Zukunft
   °íµ¶                                         Einsamkeit
   »ç¶÷µéÀº ¸ðµÎ ÀÚ±â Àڽſ¡°Ô¼­   ÁöŰ´Â »ç¶÷ó·³
   ÀÌ¿ô                                       ¶óÀÌ³Ê ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸±ÄÉ
    
            


°¡À»³¯

                 - ¶óÀÌ³Ê ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸±ÄÉ

    
ÁÖ¿©, ¶§°¡ µÇ¾ú½À´Ï´Ù. ¿©¸§Àº ¾ÆÁÖ À§´ëÇß½À´Ï´Ù.

´ç½ÅÀÇ ±×¸²ÀÚ¸¦ ÇØ½Ã°è À§¿¡ ³õÀ¸½Ã°í
¹úÆÇ¿¡ ¹Ù¶÷À» ³õ¾ÆÁÖ¼Ò¼­.


¸¶Áö¸· °úÀϵéÀ» °á½ÇÅä·Ï ¸íÇϽðí,
¿­¸Å À§¿¡ ÀÌÆ²¸¸ ´õ ³²±¹ÀÇ ÇÞºûÀ» Áֽþî

±×µéÀ» ¿Ï¼º½ÃÄÑ Áֽðí, ¸¶Áö¸· ´Ü ¸ÀÀÌ
£Àº Æ÷µµ¼ÛÀÌ ¼Ó¿¡ ½º¹Ì°Ô ÇϽʽÿÀ.


Áö±Ý ÁýÀÌ ¾ø´Â »ç¶÷Àº ÀÌÁ¦ ÁýÀ» ÁþÁö ¾Ê½À´Ï´Ù.

Áö±Ý ¿Ü·Î¿î ÀÚ´Â, ¿À·§µ¿¾È ¿Ü·Ó°Ô Áö³¾ °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù.
Àá ¸ø ÀÌ·ç¾î, µ¶¼­ÇÏ°í ±ä ÆíÁö¸¦ ¾µ °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù.

±×¸®°í ³«¿± µß±¸´Â °¡·Î¼ö ±æÀ»
ºÒ¾È½º·¹ À̸®Àú¸® Çì¸È °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù.

    
        
Herbsttag

             - Rainer Maria Rilke


Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.

Leg's deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,

Und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.


Befiel den letzen Fruichten voll zu sein;

gib ihnen noch zwei suidlichere Tage,

draenger sie Vollendung hin und jage

die letzte Sisse in den schweren Wein.


Wer letzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines

mehr.

Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,

wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben

und wird in den Alleen hin und her

unruhig wandern, wenn die Blaetter treiben.



°¡À»¿¡

               - ¸±ÄÉ

¡¡
³ª¹µÀÙÀÌ ¶³¾îÁö³×.
Àú ¸Õ °÷¿¡¼­ ã¾Æ¿Â µí

¸Ó³ª¸Õ Çϴóª¶óÀÇ Á¤¿øÀÌ ½Ãµé µí
°ÅºÎÇÏ´Â ¸öÁþÀ¸·Î ¶³¾îÁö°í ÀÖ³×.


¹ãÀÌ µÇ¸é
¹«°Å¿î ´ëÁö°¡ ¹«¼öÇÑ º°µé·ÎºÎÅÍ

Á¤Àû ¼ÓÀ¸·Î ¶³¾îÁ® ³»¸®³×.


¿ì¸®µµ ¸ðµÎ ¶³¾îÁö°í ÀÖ°í
¿©±â ÀÌ ¼Õµµ ¶³¾îÁö°í ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀ».

±×´ë¿© º¸¶ó.
¿Â°® °ÍµéÀÌ ¶³¾îÁ®³»¸®´Â °ÍÀ».


Ç㳪 ±× ¾î´À ÇÑ ºÐÀÌ ÀÖ¾î
¶³¾îÁö´Â ÀÌ ¸öÀ»

¹«ÇÑÈ÷ Á¤°¨¾î¸° ¼Õ±æ·Î
¶°¹Þ¾Æ Áֽô °ÍÀ».


¡¡
Herbst

             - Rainer Maria Rilke


Die Blatter fallen, fallen wie von weit,

als welkten in den Himmeln ferne Garten;

sie fallen mit verneinender Gebarde.


Und in den Nachten fallt die schwere Erde

aus allen Sternen in die Einsamkeit.


Wir alle fallen, Diese Hand da fallt.

Und sieh dir andre an: es ist in allen.


Und doch ist Einer, welcher dieses Fallen

unendlich sanft in seinen Handen halt.



µÎÀ̳ëÀÇ ºñ°¡ 1

               - ¶óÀÌ³Ê ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸±ÄÉ


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±×¸®¿ó°Åµé¶û, »ç¶ûÀ» ÇÏ´Â ÀÚµéÀ» ³ë·¡Ç϶ó, ÇÏÁö¸¸
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È­»ìÀÌ ½ÃÀ§¸¦ °ßµðµíÀÌ. ¸Ó¹«¸§Àº ¾îµð¿¡µµ ¾øÀ¸´Ï±î.


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´õ °ßµð±â ¾î·Á¿ì¸®. ¹Ù¶÷°á¿¡ ½ºÄ¡´Â ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾î¶ó,

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°Ü¿ì ÀÍÈù °ü½ÀÀ» ´Ù½Ã´Â ÇàÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÀ½°ú,

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Àΰ£ÀÇ Àå·¡ÀÇ Àǹ̸¦ ¼±»çÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÀ½°ú,

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»çÀ̸¦ °¡´ÂÁö ¶§¶§·Î ¸ð¸¥´Ù°í (»ç¶÷µéÀº ¸»ÇÑ´Ù).

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¶°³ª¹ö·Á ±ô¦ ³î¶õ °ø°£ ¼Ó¿¡¼­ ºñ·Î¼Ò °øÇãÇÔÀÌ
¿ì¸®¸¦ ¸ÅȤ½Ã۰í À§·ÎÇÏ¸ç µ½´Â ¼Ò¸®¸¦ ³»±â ½ÃÀÛÇß´Ù´Â °Í.



Duineser Elegien - The First Elegy

             - Rainer Maria Rilke


Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'

hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly

pressed me against his heart, I would perish

in the embrace of his stronger existence.

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror

which we are barely able to endure and are awed

because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.

Each single angel is terrifying.

And so I force myself, swallow and hold back

the surging call of my dark sobbing.

Oh, to whom can we turn for help?

Not angels, not humans;

and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel

little secure and at home in our interpreted world.

There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside

daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us

stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.

Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind

full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.

Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after,

gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the

solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?

Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the

emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds

will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight.


Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star

waited for you to espy it and sense its light.

A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,

or as you walked below an open window,

a violin gave itself to your hearing.

All this was trust. But could you manage it?

Were you not always distraught by expectation,

as if all this were announcing the arrival

of a beloved?  (Where would you find a place

to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts

coming and going and often staying for the night.)

When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love;

for their famous passion is far from immortal enough.

Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and

desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving

than those gratified. Begin ever new again

the praise you cannot attain; remember:

the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall

was for him only a pretext for achieving

his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers

back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be

achieved a second time.

Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently:


that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel

from that far intenser example of loving:

"Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest

sufferings finally become more fruitful for us?

Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves

from the beloved and, quivering, endured:

as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension,

and in this tense release becomes more than itself.

For staying is nowhere.


Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints

have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them

clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly,

kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was

their listening. Not that you could endure

the voice of God -far from it! But listen

to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message

that forms itself out of silence. They sweep

toward you now from those who died young.

Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples,

did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently

as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa?

What do they want of me? to quietly remove

the appearance of suffered injustice that,

at times, hinders a little their spirits from

freely proceeding onward.


Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer,

to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire;

not to observe roses and other things that promised

so much in terms of a human future, no longer

to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands;

to even discard one's own name as easily as a child

abandons a broken toy.

Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes.

Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering

so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work

and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a

trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make

the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction.

Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish

between moving among the living or the dead.

The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it,

through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in

its thunderous roar.


In the end the early departed have no longer

need of us. One is gently weaned from things

of this world as a child outgrows the need

of its mother's breast. But we who have need

of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is

so often the source of spiritual growth,

could we exist without them?

Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning

in the midst of the mourning for Linos?

the daring first sounds of song piercing

the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space

an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever,

and the emptiness felt for the first time

those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture

and comfort and help us.


 
¿À ÁÖ¿© ´©±¸¿¡°Ô³ª

               - ¸±ÄÉ


¿À ÁÖ¿© ´©±¸¿¡°Ô³ª ±× ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ Á×À½À» ÁֽʽÿÀ.

»ç¶û°ú ÀÇ¹Ì¿Í °í³­ÀÇ ¾Ë¸ÍÀ̰¡ µé¾îÀÖ´Â
»î¿¡¼­ Á×À½À¸·Î °¡´Â °ÍÀÌ¿À´Ï.


»ç¶÷Àº ºó ²®Áú°ú ³«¿±¿¡ Áö³ªÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸ç

´©±¸³ª ¾È°í ÀÖ´Â À§´ëÇÑ Á×À½À̾߸»·Î,
¹Ù·Î ¸ðµç °ÍÀÇ ¾Ë¸ÍÀ̰¡ µÇ´Â ¿­¸ÅÀÔ´Ï´Ù.


³ª¹«¿¡¼­ °Å¹®°í°¡ ³ª¿À´Â °Íó·³
¼Ò³àµéÀÌ ³ªÅ¸³ª°í,

¾ÆÀ̵éÀº ÀÚ¶ó¼­ ³²ÀÚ°¡ µÇ°í ¿©ÀÚ°¡ µÇ¾î
???


O HERR, Gieb Jedem Seinen Eignen Tod

                   - Rainer Maria Rilke


O HERR gieb jedem seinen eignen Tod
Das Sterben, das aus jenem Leben geht,
darin er Liebe hatte, Sinn und Not.

DENN wir sind nur die Schale und das Blatt,
Der grosse Tod, den jeder in sich hat,
das ist die Frucht, um die sich alles dreht.

Um ihretwillen heben Madchen an
und kommen wie ein Baum aus einer Laute,
und Knaben sehnen sich um sie zum Mann;
und Frauen sind den Wachsenden Vertraute
fur Angste, die sonnst niemand nehmen kann.

Um ihretwillen bleibt das Angeschaute
wie Ewiges, auch wenn es lang verrann, -
und jeder, welcher bildete und baute,
ward Welt um diese Frucht, und fror und taute
und windete ihr zu und schien sie an.

In sie ist eingegangen alle Warme
der herzen und der Hirne weisses Gluhn - :
Doch deine Engel ziehn wie Vogelschwarme,
und s ie erfanden alle Fruchte grun.



´ç½ÅÀº ¹Ì·¡À̽ʴϴÙ.

             - ¸±ÄÉ


´ç½ÅÀº ¹Ì·¡À̽ʴϴÙ. ¿µ¿øÇÑ Æò¾ß¸¦ ºñÃ߽ôÂ
À§´ëÇÑ »õº® ºûÀ̽ʴϴÙ.

´ç½ÅÀº ½Ã´ëÀÇ ¹ãÀÌ »÷ µÚ ¶§¸¦ ¾Ë¸®´Â ´ß¼Ò¸®,

´ç½ÅÀº À̽½À̽ðí, ¾ÆÄ§±âµµ, ¼Ò³àÀ̽øç,
³¸¼± »ç³ªÀÌÀ̰í, ¾î¸Ó´ÏÀ̽øç, Á×À½À̽ʴϴÙ.


´ç½ÅÀº º¯½ÅÇϽô ºÐÀ̽ʴϴÙ.

¾ðÁ¦³ª °íµ¶ÇÏ°Ô ¿î¸í ¼Ó¿¡¼­ ¼Ú¾Æ³ª

ȯȣµÇ´Â Àϵµ ¾øÀÌ, ź½ÄµÇ´Â Àϵµ ¾øÀÌ
¿ø½ÃÀÇ ½£ ±×´ë·Î À̸§Á¶Â÷ ¾øÀÌ °è½Ê´Ï´Ù.


´ç½ÅÀº »ç¹°µéÀÇ ±íÀº º»ÁúÀ̽õÇ,

±× ±Ã±ØÀûÀÎ ¸»Àº ħ¹¬ÇϽðí
»ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô Ç×»ó ´Ù¸¥ ¸ð½ÀÀ¸·Î º¸À̽ʴϴÙ.

¹è¿¡¼­´Â ±â½¾À¸·Î, ¹·¿¡¼­´Â ¹è·Î º¸À̽óª´Ï.



Du Bist Die Zukunft

             - Rainer Maria Rilke


Du bist die Zukunft, grosse Morgenrot

uber den Ebenen der Ewigkeit.

Du bist der Hahnschrei nach der Nacht der Zeit,

der Tau, die Morgenmette und die Maid,

der fremde Mann, die Mutter und der Tod.


Du bist die sich verwandelnde Gestalt,

die immer einsam aus dem schicksal ragt,

die unbejubelt bleibt und unbeklagt

und unbeschreibe wie ein wilder Wald.


Du bist der Dinge tiefer inbegriff,

der seines Wesen latztes Wort verschweigt

und sich den Andern immer anders zeigt:

dem Schiff als Kuste und dem Land als Schiff.



°íµ¶

                 - ¸±ÄÉ


°íµ¶Àº ºñ¿Íµµ °°Àº °Í

Àú³áÀ» ã¾Æ ¹Ù´Ù¿¡¼­ ¿À¸¥´Ù.
¸Ö°í ¸Õ ¿ÜÁø µé³è¿¡¼­ ¿À¸¥´Ù.

´Ã»ó °íÀûÇϱ⸸ ÇÑ Çϴ÷Π¿Å°Ü°¬´Ù°¡
Çϴÿ¡¼­ ºñ·Î¼Ò µµ½Ã¿¡ ³»¸°´Ù.


¾ÆÄ§À» ÇâÇØ °ñ¸ñ°ñ¸ñÀÌ ¸öÀ» ÀÏÀ¸Å°°í

¾Æ¹«°Íµµ ã¾Æ³»Áö ¸øÇÑ À°½ÅµéÀÌ
½Ç¸Á°ú ½½ÇÄ¿¡ Á¥¾î ¼­·Î ¶°³ª°¥ ¶§,

¼­·Î ¹Ì¿öÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀÌ
°°Àº ÀáÀÚ¸®¿¡¼­ ÇÔ²² Àáµé¾î¾ß ÇÒ ¶§,

³·°ú ¹ãÀÌ µÚ¾ûŲ ½Ã°¢, ºñ°¡ µÇ¾î ³»¸®¸é


°íµ¶Àº °­¹°°ú ÇÔ²² Èê·¯°£´Ù.....



Einsamkeit

             - Rainer Maria Rilke


DIE Einsamkeit ist wie ein Regen.

Sie steigt vom Meer den Abenden entgegen;

von Ebenen, die fern sind und entlegen,

geht sie zum Himmel, der sie immer hat.

Und erst vom Himmel fallt sie auf die Stadt.


Regnet hernieder in den Zwitterstunden,

wenn sich nach Morgen wenden alle Gassen

und wenn die Leiber, welche nichts gefunden,

enttauscht und traurig von einander lassen;

und wenn die Menschen, die einander hassen,

in einem Bett zusammen schlafen mussen:


dann geht die Einsamkeit mit den Flussen....



»ç¶÷µéÀº ¸ðµÎ ÀÚ±â Àڽſ¡°Ô¼­

                     - ¸±ÄÉ


»ç¶÷µéÀº ¸ðµÎ ÀÚ±â Àڽſ¡°Ô¼­ ´Þ¾Æ³ª·Á ÇÕ´Ï´Ù.
¹ÚÇØ¹ÞÀ¸¸é °¤Çô ÀÖ´Â °¨¿Á¿¡¼­ Ç®·Á³ª·Á´Â µíÀÌ

±×·¯³ª ÀÌ ¼¼»óÀº ÇϳªÀÇ À§´ëÇÑ ±âÀûÀÔ´Ï´Ù.
³ª´Â ´À³§´Ï´Ù.¿©±â¿¡´Â ¸ðµç »îÀÌ »ì°í ÀÖ´Ù°í.


±×·¯³ª ´ëü ´©°¡ »ç´Â °ÍÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î?

¿¬ÁÖµÇÁö ¾Æ´ÏÇÑ ¼±À²ÀÌ ÇϾÆÇÁ ¼Ó¿¡ ±êµé¿© ÀÖµíÀÌ
Àú³á ¾î½º¸§ ¼Ó¿¡ ¼û¾î ÀÖ´Â °ÍµéÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î.

¹° À§¿¡ ºÒ¾î ¿À´Â ¹Ù¶÷À̰ڽÀ´Ï±î,
½ÅÈ£¸¦ ÁÖ°í¹Þ´Â ³ª¹µÀÚ±â°Ú½À´Ï±î,

Çâ±â¸¦ dz±â´Â ²É¼ÛÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î,
´Ä¾î °¡´Â ±ä °¡·Î¼ö ±æÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î,

¿À°í°¡´Â µû¶æÇÑ µ¿¹°µéÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î,
°©Àڱ⠶°¿À¸£´Â »õµéÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î.


´ëü ´©°¡ »ç´Â °ÍÀ̰ڽÀ´Ï±î, ½Å(ãê)ÀÌ¿©, ´ç½ÅÀԴϱî-
ÀÌ '»î'À» »ì°í ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀº.



ÁöŰ´Â »ç¶÷ó·³

           - ¸±ÄÉ


Æ÷µµ¹ç¿¡ ¿øµÎ¸·À» Áþ°í¼­
ÁöŰ´Â »ç¶÷ó·³

ÁÖ¿©, Àú´Â ´ç½Å ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¿øµÎ¸·ÀÔ´Ï´Ù.
¿À¿À ÁÖ¿©, Àú´Â ´ç½ÅÀÇ ¹ã¿¡ ½ÎÀÎ ¹ãÀÔ´Ï´Ù.


Æ÷µµ¹ç, ¸ñÀå, ¿À·¡ µÈ »ç°ú¹ç
º½ÀÇ °èÀýÀ» °Ç³Ê¶Û ÁÙ ¸ð¸£´Â ¹ç

´ë¸®¼®Ã³·³ ´Ü´ÜÇÑ ¶¥¿¡¼­µµ
¸¹Àº ¿­¸Å¸¦ ¸Î´Â ¹«È­°ú³ª¹«


´ç½ÅÀÇ µÕ±Ù °¡Áö¿¡¼­ Çâ±â°¡ È帣°í ÀÖ½À´Ï´Ù.
´ç½ÅÀº Àú¿¡°Ô Áö۰í ÀÖ´À³Ä°í ¹¯Áö ¾Ê½À´Ï´Ù.

Áø¾×¿¡ °Åħ¾øÀÌ ³ì¾Æ µé¾î
´ç½ÅÀÇ ±íÀº ¶æÀÌ Á¦ °çÀ» °íÀÌ Å¸¿À¸¨´Ï´Ù.



ÀÌ¿ô

                 - ¸±ÄÉ


³¸¼± ¹ÙÀ̿ø°ÀÌ¿©, ³Ê´Â ¾îÂî ³» µÚ¸¦ ÂѴ°¡?

¸Ó³ª¸Õ ŸÇâÀÇ ¿©·¯ µµ½Ã¿¡¼­ ¹ú½á ¾ó¸¶³ª
³ÊÀÇ ¾µ¾µÇÑ ¹ãÀº ³ªÀÇ ¹ã¿¡°Ô ¸»À» °Ç³Þ´ø°¡?

¼ö¹éÀÇ »ç¶÷ÀÌ ³Ê¸¦ ÄѴ°¡, ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÌ ÄѴ°¡?


³×°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó¸é ¹ú½á °­¹°¿¡ ¸öÀ» ´øÁ³À»
±× ¾ó¸¶³ª ¸¹Àº »ç¶÷µéÀÌ

´ëµµ½Ã¸¶´Ù Áö±Ýµµ »ì°í Àִ°¡?
³× ¼Ò¸®´Â ¾îÂî À̸®µµ ³ªÀÇ °¡½¿À» Ä¡´Â°¡?


³ª´Â ¿Ö ¾ðÁ¦³ª ³Ê·Î ÇÏ¿© ºÒ¾È½º·¹
'»îÀº ¸ðµç »ç¹°µéÀÇ ¹«°Ôº¸´Ù ´õ ¹«°Ì´Ù'°í

³ë·¡ÇÏ°í ¸»Çϵµ·Ï ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀÇ
ÀÌ¿ôÀ̾î¾ß Çϴ°¡.



¶óÀÌ³Ê ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸±ÄÉ


º»¸íÀº ¸£³× ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸±ÄÉ¿´À¸³ª
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±×´Â 1875³â ÇÁ¶óÇÏ¿¡¼­ ž´Âµ¥,
ÀþÀº ½ÃÀý Àå±³·Î¼­ÀÇ È­·ÁÇÑ »ý¾Ö¸¦ ÆîÄ¡·Á´ø ²ÞÀÌ ÁÂÀýµÇ°í
Áö¹æÃ¶µµ±¹ÀÇ Çϱްü¸®·Î ±Ù¹«ÇÏ´ø ¾Æ¹öÁö ¿ä¼Á ¸±ÄÉ¿Í

Å« °¡¹®Ãâ½ÅÀÌ¸ç »çȸÀûÀ¸·Î Å« ¸í¿¹¿å¿¡ »ç·ÎÀâÇô ÀÖ´ø ¾î¸Ó´Ï
¼ÒÇÇ ¿£Ã÷´Â ¼­·ÎÀÇ ¶æÀÌ ¸ÂÁö ¾Ê¾Æ ¼øÅºÇÑ °áÈ¥»ýȰÀ» ÇÏÁö ¸øÇß´Ù.

ºÎ¼ºÀû ±ÇÀ§¿Í ¸ð¼ºÀû Æ÷±ÙÇÔÀÇ ±ÕÇüÀ» »ó½ÇÇÑ ¸±ÄÉ´Â Ãâ»ý½ÃºÎÅÍ ºÒ¾ÈÇÑ
»óÅ¿´°í 1884³â ¸±Äɰ¡ 9»ì µÇ´ø ÇØ¿¡ ºÎ¸ð´Â ÀÌÈ¥ÇÏ°í ¸»¾Ò´Ù.
 
1900³â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ À̸§À¸·Î ¡º°æ±¸Áý Ephemeriden¡»À̶õ

¼ÒÃ¥ÀÚ¸¦ ³¾ Á¤µµ·Î Ȱµ¿ÀûÀÎ ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â Á¤½ÅÁúȯ¿¡ °¡±î¿ï Á¤µµÀÇ
¿ïÈ­ÁõÀ¸·Î ÁÖÀ§ÀÇ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀ» ±äÀå ¼Ó¿¡ ¸ô¾Æ³Ö¾ú´Ù.

¿ÀÁ×Çϸé Èʳ¯ ¸±Äɰ¡ 29¼¼ µÇ´ø ÇØ¿¡ ±×·± ¾î¸Ó´Ï¿¡ ´ëÇÏ¿©

'¹ÙÁöÀú°í¸®Ã³·³ ¼ÓÀÌ ÅÖºó ¸Á»óÀûÀÌ°í ¿ª°Ü¿î' ¿©ÀÎÀ̶ó°í

Áõ¿À ¼¯ÀÎ ¾îÈÖ¸¦ ³»¹ñ¾úÀ»±î. ½Å¾ÓÀû µ¶¼±ÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï¿¡ ´ëÇÏ¿©
1915³â 10¿ù 14ÀÏ ¹ÀÇî¿¡¼­ ¾²¿©Áø ½Ã±¸¿¡¼­ ¸±ÄÉ´Â ÀÌ·¸°Ô Àý±ÔÇÑ´Ù.


¾Æ ½½ÇÁ´Ù, ³ªÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï°¡ ³ª¸¦ Çã¹®´Ù
µ¹ÀÌ Ã¤°îä°î ³ª¿¡°Ô ½×¿©

ÇÏ·çÇØ°¡ Å­Á÷ÇÏ°Ô ¿òÁ÷ÀÌ´Â ÀÛÀº Áýó·³ ¹ú½á ¼­ÀÖ´Ù
È¥ÀÚ »ÓÀ̾úÁö

ÀÌÁ¦ ¾î¸Ó´Ï°¡ ¿À¼Å¼­ ³ª¸¦ Çã¹®´Ù

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ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ »ó½Ç°¨À» ¸Þ²Ù¾î ÁÙ ´ë¿ë¹°·Î ¸±Äɸ¦ Ű¿î´Ù.

¿©ÀÚ¿ÊÀ» ÀÔÈ÷°í, ¸Ó¸®¸¦ ¶¦¾ÆÁÖ°í, ¼Ò²ÅÀå³­À» ÇÏ°Ô Çϸç,
³²ÀÚ ¾ÆÀ̵é°ú ³ë´Â °Í¸¶Àú ±ÝÁö½ÃŲ´Ù.

¿©ÀÚ À̸§ÀÎ '¸¶¸®¾Æ'¶ó´Â ¿µ¼¼¸íÀ» ¹Þ°Ô µÈ °Íµµ
ÀÌ·± ¿¬À¯¿¡¼­ÀÌ´Ù. ¾î¸° ¸±ÄÉ´Â °ð ½ÉÇÑ ÁÂÀý°¨¿¡ ºüÁø´Ù.


1886³â 11»ì µÇ´ø ÇØ ¸±ÄÉ´Â ºÎ¸ðÀÇ ÀÌÈ¥¿¡ µû¸¥ ÈļÓÃ¥À¸·Î
½Ö ÆúÅÙ¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¼Ò³â ±º»çÇб³¿¡¼­ °øºÎÇÏ¿´°í

1890³â¿¡´Â ¸Þ¸®½¬¡ªºÁÀ̾²Å°¸£ÇîÀÇ °íµî±º»çÇб³¿¡ µé¾î°£´Ù.
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¸±Äɴ ưưÇÑ ¼Ò³âµéÀÌ ¸ð¿©Àִ ȯ°æÀ» °ßµð¾î ³¾ ¼ö ¾ø¾ú´Ù.

¼¼»óÀû ¿å½ÉÀÌ °­ÇÑ ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â ¼º½ÇÇÑ °¡¹®ÀÇ ¸·¿¬ÇÑ ±ÍÁ·½ÅºÐÀÇ
ÈçÀûÀ» °¡Áö°í ¸±ÄÉ·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý Ư¼öÀǽĿ¡ ºüÁö°Ô ÇÑ´Ù.

 
¿ø·¡ ¸±ÄÉÀÇ Áý¾ÈÀº ÇÕ½ººÎ¸£Å© ¿Õ°¡¿¡ Ãæ¼ºÇÏ´Â ¸Å¿ì ÀÚÀ¯ÁÖÀÇÀû
ÀǽÄÀ» Áö´Ñ ½Ã¹Î°è±ÞÀ̾ú´Ù. ÀÌ·± °úÁ¤ÀÌ »ê¹®½Ã ÀÛǰ

'ÄÚ¸£³Ý Å©¸®½ºÅäÇÁ ¸±ÄÉÀÇ »ç¶û°ú Á×À½ÀÇ ³ë·¡
Die Weise von Liebe und Tod Cornets Christoph Rilke'·Î
Ç¥ÇöµÇ°í ÀÖ´Ù. ¹Ù¶÷ÀÌ ¸÷½Ã ºÎ´Â 11¿ù ¹ã ¹éÀϸù»óÅ¿¡¼­

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1891³â °è¼ÓµÇ´Â Áúº´°ú Çã¾àÇÑ Ã¼Áú·Î ÀÎÇÏ¿© ¸±ÄÉ´Â ±º»çÇб³¸¦
±×¸¸µÎ°í ¸°Ã÷(Linz)¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ½Ç¾÷Çб³¿¡ µé¾î°£´Ù.

±×·¯¸é¼­ °³ÀÎÀûÀ¸·Î ´ëÇÐÀÔÇÐÀ» À§ÇÑ Àι®±³À°°úÁ¤À» Áغñ,
1895³â 7¿ù ´ëÇÐÀÔÇÐÀÚ°Ý ±¹°¡½ÃÇè¿¡ ÇÕ°ÝÇÑ´Ù.

À̶§ ¹ß¸®(Vally David¡ªRhonfeld)¶ó´Â ¼Ò³à¿¡°Ô ÇâÇØÁø ù»ç¶ûÀÌ
½Ç¿¬À¸·Î ³¡³­´Ù. À̰ÍÀº ¾î¸Ó´ÏÀÇ Æ÷·ÎÀÏ ¼ö ¹Û¿¡ ¾ø¾ú´ø ±×¿¡°Ô

Óß¿¬Àΰü°è¿¡ °¡ÁßµÈ Àå¾Ö¿äÀÎÀÌ µÈ´Ù. Æò»ý ¸±ÄÉ´Â ³²¼º Ä£±¸º¸´Ù
¿©¼ºµéÀÌ ¿¡¿ö½Î°í ÀÖ¾ú´ø °Íµµ ³²¼ºÀ¸·Î¼­ÀÇ ¿ªÇÒºÎÀç¿Í ¹«°üÄ¡ ¾Ê´Ù.
          
          
 

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