Lord: it is time. The summer was so 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.
I want to go home and go to Cider Fest. I want to breathe the brisk, crackly air and pick my orchard's apples. Year two without autumn...sigh...
5 comments:
will be going to washington for the fall break, dear one?
the same.
i'm sorry that there is no autumn in santa barbara. santa barbara sits in perpetual mildness. very nice if you have been longing for the sun but also a little on the dull side when your heart needs air that makes your skin say "oh!" when you step outside.
the world is so full of wonderful places, each with its own strength and beauty. i have traveled so much that i find my heart all torn between the longings and the recollections. but these things need to just make me richer, not fill me with melancholy. longing is a sign of love and that should give me joy.
i'm happy you are here on this site. my middle aged eyes always had trouble reading you on xanga!
love from africa.
i think i would enjoy nothing more than spending time with you, ms. base.
i do, however, have a staff meeting at four post meridian...will you be attending the communal picnic on kerrwood lawn?
I always loved this poem. I remember feeling serious autumn-grief in Portugal, where the climate is mild and even-tempered as it is in SB.
I like C.F. MacIntyre's translation a little better, though:
Lord, it is time. The summer was too long.
Lay now thy shadow over the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds blow strong.
Bid the last fruit to ripen on the vine;
allow them still two friendly southern days
to bring them to perfection and to force
the final sweetness in the heavy wine.
Who has no house now will not build him one.
Who is alone now will be long alone,
will waken, read, and write long letters
and through the barren pathways up and down
restlessly wander when dead leaves are blown.
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