Lord: it is time. Bright summer fades away.

Let sundials darken as your shadows grow.

Set loose your winds across the open fields.

 

Let the last fruit still ripen on the vine,

And give the grapes a few more southern days

To warm them to perfection, and then press

Their earthy sweetness into heavy wine.

 

Whoever has no house now never builds one.

Whoever is alone now stays alone.

Now he will wake and read, writing long letters,

Aimlessly wandering the empty lanes,

Restless as the leaves swirling round his feet.

 

(after R. M. Rilke)