Autumn
by Paul Cézanne
Lord, the time has come. Summer was abundant.
Cast your shadows over the sundial,
across the fields unleash your winds.
Command the final fruits to ripen.
Grant them two more southern days,
bring them to fullness and press
their last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who now has no house will not build one.
Who now is alone will remain alone,
will read into the night, write long letters,
and, restless, wander streets
where leaves are blowing.
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