Lord, it is time. The summer was immense. Lay your shadow on the sun-dials and on the plains release the winds.
Command the last fruits to fill themselves; Grant them two more temperate days, urge them to completeness and chase the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who now is homeless builds himself no house. Who is alone now will long remain so, will stay awake, and read, and write long letters, and in the avenues, when the leaves are drifting, wander anxiously.
Translated by Desmond Fennell
