Poetry

Lord, it's time. Summer was so long.
Drop your shadow on the sundial, now,
and send a chill wind over the vale.

But in these last few temperate days
bid the grape to ripen on the vine
so that, cured of sour humor,
only sweetness flows into the wine.

Whoever is homeless now will stay so.
Whoever's alone will never find his other
but pass long nights reading and penning letters,
wandering port-less down highways
and starting when the leaves chirr.


Rilke