Rainer Maria Rilke

Day In Autumn

by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Mary Kinzie

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time
to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials
and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.
Direct on them two days of warmer light
to hale them golden toward their term, and harry
the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;
who lives alone will live indefinitely so,
waking up to read a little, draft long letters,
and, along the city's avenues,
fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.

I think the reader of the above poem will think this is a poem about the season of autumn until the last stanza. Then it becomes apparent, at least to me, that we are looking at a metaphor. This transforms the entire poem about someone who has reached the autumn of his or her life. The reader might even suspect this poem is about the poet.

After living one's life, it is time to let the time pass and those who come behind you play in the pastures of life because your summers are over now. You can take the fruit of those memories and make them into a wine to enjoy.

In the twilight of one's years, if you are alone you will stay alone. Sometimes at night, you wake up because like most of us when we get older we have trouble sleeping at night. When you do,you read a little, maybe draft long letters and wonder along the city's avenues looking at the people and seeing the wild leaves loosen knowing that someday your time will be over.

I know that memories are more important now to me as I am in the Autumn of my years although I am not looking at death but this poet did not live past middle age. I shift through these memories seeing meaning and connections that I did not see before and learning things from experiences that I had not thought about before. I don't see it as a sad exercise although if you had asked me whether I would enjoy this years ago I would have recoiled in horror. Now, I enjoy it.

I think if I could classify writers according to seasons, I would be an autumn writer which would always been alright with me as it was my favorite season. I like stories and novels where are a past and a mystery that started years before. I like to think of myself as Sherlock Holmes investigating why a character is acting the way they do. And come up with hints, evidence and finally the real reason they do what they do.

When I was a kid, I was famished for some experience, adventure. Oh, I got some alright. I am still getting some which is a surprise. In my childhood, I wanted to run down into the valley below where I lived and see what the houses, churches, buildings were really like. I wanted to travel and see what was on the other side of the ocean, lakes continents. If I could have done it, I would like to have traveled to other worlds. I did it in books.

Autumn was the season I have been waiting for all of my life. I made it and darn if I am going to be pessimistic about it. So what if I have a few age spots on my hands. So what if society and culture views me as less valuable as a senior citizen than when I was young and alluring. I like it this way better. I think Rainer Maria Rilke would have liked it too if he only lived long enough to enjoy it.