(Rilke; translation by Randolph Walker)

         Lord, it is time. Great was summer's yield.
         Lay your cool blue shadows on the sundials
         And loosen autumn winds upon the fields.

         Command the last few fruits to fully ripen.
         Give them one more day that's warm and fine.
         Push them to perfection, Lord, and send
         The last few drops of sweetness to the vine.

         Whoever has no home, will long be homeless.
         Whoever is alone will met few friends,
         will watch, read papers, write long letters, and then
         Here and there, through avenues and alleys,
         Wander, when the leaves fly on the wind.