Lord, it is time. The summer is overcooked.
Time to wrap up the sundials in shadows,
and over the stubble, let the wind loose.
Force the fruits to fatten on the vine,
a few more days of voluptuary ease,
fill them to the limit, and then squeeze
their last sweet moments into heavy wine.
Who hasn’t a home now will never have one.
Who is alone now will be so forever
and sit, and read, and compose long letters
and loiter the avenues, up and down
like dry autumn leaves, and never settle.
Peter Jukes: a version of Herbsttag by Rilke