In the autumn

Somber is the autumn,

and when the leaves fall,

so does the heart sink

into dreary woe.

Silent is the meadow

and to the south have flown

silently all the songbirds,

as if to the grave.

Pale is the day,

and wan clouds veil

the sun as they veil the heart.

Night comes early:

for all work comes to a halt

and existence itself rests in profound secrecy.

Man becomes kindly.

He sees the sun sinking,

he realizes that life is

like the end of a year.

His eye grows moist,

yet in the midst of his tears shines

streaming from the heart

a blissful effusion.