Autumn

A seasonal translation of Rilke's poem "Herbsttag":

Lord, it is time. Great summer is no more.
Set thy shadows upon the sundials' faces;
And through grassy spaces let the harsh winds roar.

Bid the last fruits take on ripened shape,
Grant them but a few more southern days,
Push them toward fulfilment then, to raise
A final sweetness in the heavy grape.

Too late for the homeless now their roofs to build;
And for him that lives alone - he'll long live so,
He'll read by night, compose long letters, go
Roaming up and down in avenues filled
With restlessness, and leaves that sharp gusts blow.