Autumn

from R. M. Rilke

Lord, it is time. The fruitful summer yields;
The shadows fall across the figured dial,
The winds are loosed upon the harvest fields.
See that these last fruits swell upon the vine;
Grant them as yet a southern day or two
Then press them to fulfilment, and pursue
The last of sweetness in the heavy wine.
Who now is homeless shall not build this year.
He shall be solitary and long alone;
Shall wake, and read, and write long letters home,
And on deserted pavements here and there
Shall wander restless, as the leaves are blown.