Again the asters’ baleful light begins to bloom;
again an autumn comes. And this heart worn with longing,
in which the summer’s torch begins to smoke and gutter,
then shudders, and hangs back ...

– I, whose hand felt the weight of the warm fruit
but was denied a bite in recompense;
who, knowing you are there, autumn compassion,
know myself the more alone;

eternal reaper, I, who cut the corn
but never for himself did bind the sheaf;
perpetual sailor in his watery furrows
who never to harbour came:

again an autumn comes; and again cruel want comes near
this heart that, without hope, yet does still know desire;
that, ever longing for this autumnal dying,
after winter knows it’s spring...

– Again my autumn blood burns in beseeching gestures;
again the heart weeps where the old wound sears ...
– How the gold of the chestnut trees is bronzing!
The silver aster blooms ...