If I’d grown up in a different land,
one with lighter days and slimmer hours,
I would have made for you a great fete,
and my hands would not have held you
the way they often do, clenched and afraid.
I would have been bold and squandered you,
you boundless Now.
I would have hurled you
like a ball
into every billowing delight, so that someone
could catch you and leap
with high hands to meet your fall,
you thing of things.
Rilke, from The Book of Hours
Lord: it is time. Your summer was superb.
Lay your shadows on the sundials,
and in the meadows let the winds go free.
Command the last fruits to be full;
give them only two more southern days,
urge them to completion and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house will never build one now.
Whoever is alone now will long remain so,
will stay awake, read books, write long letters
and wander restless back and forth
along the tree-lined streets, as the leaves drift down.