autumn poem by rilke...

lord, it is time. the summer was too long.
lay now thy shadows over the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds blow strong.

bid the last fruit to ripen on the vine;
allow them still two friendly southern days
to bring them to perfection, and to force
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.

who has no house now will not build him one
who is alone now will be long alone,
will waken, read, and write long letters
and through the barren pathways up and down
restlessly wander when dead leaves are blown.

~ translation / c.f. macintyre

rilke was not from the great northwest -
where any day of summer is not long enough..
when summer days are joined together..
still not long enough!