Mismo!

Says Rilke, Mr. Woeful poet himself:

O ancient curse of poets!
Being sorry for themselves instead of saying,
forever passing judgement on their feeling
instead of shaping it, forever thinking
that what is sad or joyful in themselves
is what they know and what in poems may fitly
be mourned or celebrated. Invalids,
using a language full of woefulness
to tell us where it hurts, instead of sternly
transforming into words those selves of theirs,
as imperturbable cathedral carvers
transposed themselves into the constant stone.
That would have been salvation. Had you once
perceived how fate may pass into a verse
and not come back, how, once in, it turns image,
nothing but image, but an ancestor
who sometimes, when you watch him in his frame,
seems to be like you and again not like you:---
you would have persevered.

translated by J. B. Leishman