Lord: it is time. The summer was immense,
Lay your shadow on the sundials
And let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
Give them another two more southerly days,
Press them to ripeness, and chase
The last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time,
Will stay up, read, write long letters,
And wander the avenues, up and down,
Restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Rilke, Paris, September 21, 1902