Friendly, but unblest
the moon slowly roams
a September midnight
A gale disturbs the darkness.

In the deserted living room
I lie alone
unsleeping on my sofa.
The darkness round me is alive.

Over table and walls
the surface of the floor
lies the dull still purgatory
of the moonlit panes.

The moonlight is alive,
is charred dreams,
slowly rises and falls,
slowly falls and rises.

Soon the lamp’s moon-brass
will shine towards me,
soon a cloud before the moon
will snuff out the brassy gleaming.

Outside in the hedgerow
the elder’s hoarse branches
moan and groan
as if wrung by hands.

Across the sky the
autumn clouds chase,
fearful flight of islands
towards another world.

The wall’s rose-branches
knock on my window,
the summer night’s roses
fell, and the branch is afraid.

The night’s fear and lovely
underworld’s complaint.
The moon’s ancient fire
captures my whole being.

The gale fills the air,
night’s expanses shiver,
the moon-bright scythes of
the wind go reaping.

Harvest is over, and leaf-fall
approaches; night and leaf-fall.
Moonlight and leaf-fall,
sighing and sorrow and leaf-fall.

And I lie alone,
unsleeping on my sofa,
just now there was youth,
playing and bright summer nights.

Has the world now closed
life’s bright halls?
Return, oh return,
cuckoos and nightingales!