Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go.
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.
Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Give them yet two more southern days,
Urge them to perfection, and chase
The last sweetness into heavy wine.
Who now has no house, builds no more.
Who is now alone, will long remain so,
Will stay awake, read, write long letters
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.
Rainer Maria Rilke