Herbsttag

Keatsmas is coming fast, and I’ve been meaning to build up to it with at least one other poem. Here it is:

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
Und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.

Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
Gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
Dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
Die letzte Süsse in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
Wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
Und wird in den Alleen hin und her
Unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

–Rainer Maria Rilke

Here is my very unscholarly translation. (Feel free to improve it, Scharnhorst!)

Lord: It is time. The summer was enormous.
Lay your shadows along the sundial,
And let the winds loose across the acres.

Tell the last fruits to reach full size;
Give them yet two southerly days,
Bring them to perfection, and chase
The last sweetness in the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house will not build now.
Whoever is alone will stay that way for a long time,
Will wake up, read, write long letters,
And wander up and down the avenues,
Restless, when the leaves follow.

I found an interesting walk-through translation of this poem, in case you’re leery of mine. Of course you lose everything in translation. A particularly problematic line is the first one of the last stanza, which is unforgettable in the German and impossibly awkward in English.

I have no end of admiration for Rilke’s rhythm and beauty of language. I wonder if this poem is something to the Germans like “To Autumn” is to us. It seems likely, and I was delighted to see it on my friend’s German mom’s blog, along with—what joy!—an excellent picture of stubble plains.