AUTUMN DAY after Rainer Maria Rilke

AUTUMN DAY

after the German of Rainer Maria Rilke

Lord, it is time. The summer was so vast.

Lay now your shadows on the hours of sundials.

The winds let loose and on the fields be cast.

Command last fruits now to grow full and fine;

give them but two, south-heated days' last trace;

push them to final ripeness; hunt and chase

last sweetness down into the heavy vine.

Those now who have no home will build no more.

Those now alone will long stay so; will wake,

will read at length, will write long letters, take

to restless wandering, go to and fro,

in alleys when the leaves are driven so.

CANDLELIGHT

CANDLELIGHT

Winter evening’s

early darkness was

without.

I lay upon my bed.

Suddenly

the steady-shining

bulb above my head

flickered and went dead,

leaving night

within.

I rose in dimness,

reached out and took

a stout, old candle from

a wardrobe top.

I struck a match

and lit the wick,

seeing fleeting fire catch

and burn in darkness. Light,

small but glowing, gave

clear sight.

Small, single flame,

one drop of fire,

one solitary shining,

yet rays the cheer of light;

still casts a warm

lucidity upon each form,

dissolving the invading

darkness of the night.

Though it is but

a single point

of light’s creation,

all in its sphere receives

illumination.

MOONSET

                                    MOONSET

Wild is the wind as it rides with the night,

Wild is the wind as it sets the sky sighing.

Bright's the thin moon as westward it's lying.

Bright is the white-shining chalice of light,

Bearing the circle of earth-light's far shine.

Silent's the sightless, swift passing of time.

Silent is time as it's endlessly flying.

Bright is the moonship on time's ebbing tide;

Bright as it glides beneath dark of earth side;

Smiling good-bye on horizon's black bar-

Leaving the night to wild dark, wind and stars.

PHOENIX OF THE DAY

PHOENIX OF THE DAY

Descending now, the western sun returns

The world to night. The day's last fire burns

With shining flame wings of time's flight,

The sun-winged phoenix of the light.

The brilliant bird of day is dead;

Its far-spread wings of cloud flame red

Upon a fading, funeral pyre:

The sunset's final, dying fire.

The wings of light dissolve in dark,

To leave but scatterings of spark:

Sky-patterning, white stars that light

The passing of the pause of night.

Yet with soft dawn's light-growing gleams,

The rising flame of day's unfurled.

New-born are sun-rayed, blazing beams:

The phoenix of new day ascending

Upon the freshly shining world.

So from the sleeping night's swift ending,

The bird of time is winged anew,

To fly on sky's wide-spreading blue.

From resting, strength-renewing night,

With brilliant wings, now dark has gone,

Life's phoenix rises with the light,

Reborn- and time flies ever on.

WHITE MOON

WHITE MOON

High in the wide sky

rides the white moon,

gliding over

a world of night silences...

shining pale, white light,

defining the sight in another guise:

not the bright

reality of day sun,

the other side of life.

The other side of life

where shadow hides

a sightless light

and senses' might

seems insubstantial...

where midnight cloud's a wild romance,

and waters sparkle silver

and leaves are colourless and pale

and hills are spectred forms

and ground and tree

seem growing flow's transparency

within the sunless shade-

where sheens a lightless shine and silence seems a sound:

an almost remembered

and distant tune...

white moon,

white moon,

white moon.