April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

Rainer Maria Rilke, "A God Can Do It."


A god can do it. But can a man expect
to penetrate the narrow lyre and follow?
His sense is discord. Temples for Apollo
are not found where two heart-ways intersect.

For song, as taught by you, is not desire,
not wooing of something finally attained;
song is existence. For the god unstrained.
But when shall we exist? And he require

the earth and heavens to exist for us?
It's more than being in love, boy, though your ringing
voice may have flung your dumb mouth open thus:

learn to forget those fleeting ecstasies.
Far other is the breath of real singing.
An aimless breath. A stirring in the God. A breeze.

Translation by J.B. Leishman--I really love his translation; I spent about half an hour at the bookstore comparing different ones, and picked his because he conveys meaning and imagery also puts it into verses that scan beautifully and have evident form in English.

This struck me because it's fall, and here in New England, we have the weather to prove it. I'm happy.


To Autumn

Lord, it is time. The summer was so great.
Impose upon the sundials now your shadows
and round the meadows let the wind rotate.

Command the last fruits to incarnadine;
vouchsafe, to urge them on into completeness,
yet two more south-like days; and that last sweetness,
inveigle it into the heavy vine.

He'll not build now, who has no house awaiting.
Who's now alone, for long will so remain:
sit late, read, write long letters, and again
return to restlessly perambulating
the avenues of parks when leaves downrain.