Number 281: Song Of The Battery Hen

Song of the Battery Hen

We can't grumble about accommodation;
We have a new concrete floor that's
Always dry, four walls that are
Painted white, and a sheet-iron roof
The rain drums on. A fan blows warm air
Beneath our feet to disperse the smell
Of chickenshit and, on dull days,
Fluorescent lighting sees us.

You can tell me; if you come by
The North door, I am in the twelfth pen
On the left-hand side of the third row
From the floor; and in that pen
I am usually the middle one of the three.
But even without directions, you'd
Discover me. I have the same orange-
Red comb, yellow beak and auburn
Feathers, but as the door opens and you
Hear above the electric fan a kind of
One-word wail, I am the one
Who sounds loudest in my head.

Listen. Outside this house there's an
Orchard with small moss-green apple
Trees; beyond that, two fields of
Cabbages then, on the far side of
The road, a broiler house. Listen:
One cockerel crows out of there, as
Tall and proud as the first hour of the sun.
Sometimes I stop calling with the others
To listen, and I wonder if he hears me.
The next time you come here, look for me.
Notice the way I sound inside my head.
God made us all quite differently,
And blessed us with this expensive home.

-- Edwin Brock

Hap Notes: Edwin Brock (1927-1997) idly read a poetry anthology when he was waiting to be demobbed (demobilized) from the Royal Navy in 1946 in Hong Kong after WWII. It changed the young man's life. The idea that verse, with it's often terse and condensed words, had communicative possibilities far beyond any other form of the written word inspired him to write. (He was from a distinctly un-literary South London family and he'd only gotten school qualifications from grammar school.)

He pursued writing as he worked as a policeman. When he was first published in the Times Literary Supplement the editor, Alan Pryce-Jones, had no idea that the young poet was a Bobby. Much was made of this in the British press, but Brock was unaffected by the ballyhoo and continued to read and hone his craft. He eventually became an advertising copywriter. He was quite good at it although he hated it as he hated anything that interfered with his reading and writing.

Brock had more than a dozen books of poetry published in his life time as well as a novel and an autobiography. His divorce, his remarriage, the birth of his children and other aspects of his life were all covered in his somewhat "Confessional" poetry. Today's poem, along with "Five Ways To Kill A Man" are two of his most famous and oft-read poems.

I suppose, one could make a case for the poor chickens in this poem. You'd have to be a complete numb skull not to know about the treatment of chickens raised for meat in today's market. Here in America, their beaks are often cut so that they won't hurt themselves or other chickens while penned up. So that's the first layer here. A battery is a large group of cages for the raising of poultry.

But there's something haunting in this poem that has to do with more than just the plight of animals we raise for food. There's an element in this poem that speaks directly to all of us who feel penned in and, even more startling, the rationalization we go through to defend our positions. That world out there is different, beautiful, calls to us but it is dangerous.

Here's what Brock had to say about today's poem at a reading: "It was written... when I was staying on a farm in Worcestershire. The farmer showed me his battery house with some pride and when I made the usual cliched comment about the poor bloody hens he said "Do you know we had an experiment one day, we left the flaps of all the cages up to see what the hens would do. Well, they looked around and walked right back in." At that point I said to myself, " Christ, he's just written my autobiography" and that afternoon I wrote "Song of the Battery Hen."

You can find more Brock here:www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoet.do?poetId=7496

Number 280: William Allingham "The Fairies"

The Fairies

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.

-- William Allingham

Hap Notes: William Allingham (1824-1889) was born in Ballyshannon, County Donegal, Ireland and worked at posts in custom houses as he wrote poetry. (Hap, what the hell is a customs house? Well, usually the term refers to an office for government officials that process the paperwork for the importation and exportation of goods.) He wrote poetry throughout his life. Today's poem is much quoted from the Willy Wonka movie to books by Terry Pratchett.

Allingham may be most famous for his copious diaries and records of his friend Alfred Tennyson. He is often referred to as the Boswell to Tennsyson's Dr. Johnson. He is much more than that, though. William Butler Yeats referred to him as a "minor immortal" and told Allingham's wife that he was "sometimes inclined to believe that [Allingham] was my own master in Irish Verse, starting me in the way I have gone whether for good or for ill." He was also friends with Carlyle who influenced him to take an editorship with Fraser's Magazine.

Both Yeats and Allingham believed in fairies, by the way.

Allingham also wrote under the names D. Pollex and Patricius Walker. In his book of poetic thoughts, Blackberries, written as D. Pollex, he writes "England! Leave Asia, Africa alone/ And mind this little country of thine own."

In today's poem, by the way, the places Columbkill, Slievleleague and Rosses are all places in Northern Ireland. Columbkill is a particularly interesting saint, also, by the by. Allingham's reputation suffers because he has that glib touch of the Irish blarney. His verses are so smooth that they are often considered too easy or trite. Today's poem is so well known that it makes this judgment impossible, really. His verses are easily read and charming. You could do worse.

Allingham's last words were "I am seeing things you know nothing of" and were oft repeated by Tennyson in his aging years.

In one of Allingham's diary entries about Tennyson he relates how an innkeeper had kept a poem of Tennyson's that the poet had written on a piece of butcher paper and had left in his room. The poem, Allingham is stunned to find out upon seeing a copy of it, was Tennyson's "In Memoriam" his famous requiem on the death of his friend and the poem was a favorite of Queen Victoria.

Here's a little bonus poem of Allingham's:

Let Me Sing of What I know

A wild west Coast, a little Town,
Where little Folk go up and down,
Tides flow and winds blow:
Night and Tempest and the Sea,
Human Will and Human Fate:
What is little, what is great?
Howsoe'er the answer be,
Let me sing of what I know.

You can find more Allingham here: www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/a#a6965

It's Saturday so here are our cartoons:

But first, Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King" from Peer Gynt. I always think of this melody when I read Allingham's poem: www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRpzxKsSEZg&feature=related

Some fairies and fairy art: www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2kFMkhm0Y4&feature=related

Here's a charming leader for a documentary on Faeries: www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZURERtex38&feature=related

Gotta have the Fantasia fairies in "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker, I s'pose: www.youtube.com/watch?v=8At8zfh_o3E&feature=related

If you can stand another rendition- here's someone playing the Glass Armonica (invented by Benjamin Franklin) with ""Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies": www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQemvyyJ--g&feature=related

This is so odd I had to share it: www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIBZEJe6sv0

Fairytales toys: www.youtube.com/watch?v=bxnBzLXq1dM&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL7EDFDA9128DECD2C

And the Star Fairies toys: www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZoVPUVb1oxs

Okay, enough with the fairies. Here's the palate cleansing Pixies with the only song of theirs I can even remotely stand, "This Monkey's Gone To Heaven": www.youtube.com/watch?v=3R_-3w_Iwk0&feature=related I suppose I could have used Black Sabbath's "Fairies Wear Boots" with our theme, too. More yuk.

I'm indulging myself now with some music to clear my head of the crappy music and sugary fairies toys. Love that Hubert Sumlin guitar, too. This is my idea of magical beings. Howlin' Wolf with "Smokestack Lightning": www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAwjZLztd28 I feel better now.

Number 279: John Masefield "Sea Fever"

Sea Fever

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

-- John Masefield

Hap Notes: First off, when I was a kid I memorized this poem as "I must GO down to the seas again...." but this is wrong. The full verses above are exactly as printed in the book where the poem first appeared in 1916, Salt Water Poems and Ballads. You can see the book for yourself (with its charming illustrations) here: openlibrary.org/books/OL6591137M/Salt-water_poems_and_ballads and it's well worth a look.

Today's poem has moved many a heart with it's description of the sea-faring life. There's more here, though. The "wild call" that is all of nature may even be a call to do something that will bring on loneliness or danger but cannot be denied – like an artist or a writer or a composer or even a policeman, fireman, farmer. There's the feeling of the individual facing life and enjoying its dangers and beauties in this poem, which is why, I believe, it is so successful. It sums up what we all feel about life whether we are sailors or not – that feeling of being one with some part of nature, being invigorated by the challenges ahead. The prospect of a new journey. The hard work and fellowship with other travelers. The sweet rest afterward. It is a metaphor for life, too, yes?

John Masefield (1878-1967) was brought up by an aunt who urged him to go to sea to "break his addiction to reading." His mother died when he was six years old and his father died not long after that. ( I don't know that it's necessary to say it, but I will anyway: poets are most often sprung out of family anomalies and tragedies–from Tennyson's wacky dad to Rilke's mom dressing him as girl when he was little to Kunitz's dad drinking acid to Corso being sent to orphanages and told his mom was dead when she wasn't – the list goes on and on. Just sayin'.) Masefield wrote his thoughts in a journal and always had, as my parents used to say of me, "his nose in a book." (This is an interesting statement really. I suppose when you are not the one reading but just observing a reader it does look like you are just staring at something intently. The reader is miles away – on a ship, in the past, in the future, riding a horse, seeing battles, falling in love – but especially to those who read little, it looks like staring at a page.)

Masefield was 17 on his first ocean voyage as a hand on a ship bound for Chile. He saw wonders (a nocturnal rainbow, flying fish etc.), got seasick and ended up in New York where he had a variety of jobs including being a bartender and working in a carpet factory. Masefield was still an avid reader, spending most of his meager cash on books. He read a poem by Duncan Campbell Scott, "The Piper of Arll" which set him towards poetry. He even wrote Scott a letter telling him that he was the one who had inspired Masefield to write it.

After returning to England he met the woman who would be his wife and life-long partner, Constance Crommelin. She was 35, he was 23. She was a mathematics teacher who was a lover of English literature. He wrote copious amounts of love letters to her. They were together until her death in 1960.

Masefield was a busy writer. He wrote book reviews by the score, plays, children's books, poetry and made a pretty good living doing it. He was also a lecturer and was thought to be an expert on English Literature, most particularly Chaucer, due to his "reading addiction." After the death of Robert Bridges, Masefield was appointed England's Poet Laureate as his successor. He was England's laureate from 1930 until his death in 1963 (only Tennyson lasted longer at the post.) There was some little controversy over this as some had assumed Kipling would be appointed. Masefield, throughout his writing career, even when he was laureate, always included a self-addressed stamped envelope with every submission of work he made so that if it was rejected it could be sent back to him (this is common practice for writers but not common for the laureate- very humble of him.)

Here's one of his final verses, found after his death:

Heirs, Administrators, and Assigns:

Let no religious rite be done or read
In any place for me when I am dead,
But burn my body into ash, and scatter
The ash in secret into running water,
Or on the windy down, and let none see;
And then thank God that there’s an end of me.

You can find more Masefield here: www.poetry-archive.com/m/masefield_john.html

Number 278: Donald Hall "Goosefeathers"

Goosefeathers

When I was twelve I sat by myself in the steamliner
with a shoebox of sandwiches and deviled eggs
my mother made, and ate everything right away
as the train headed north by the Sound where trestles

of derelict trolley lines roosted nations of seagulls.

From South Station I took a taxi across Boston

to a shabby, black locomotive with coal car

that pulled two rickety coaches. It puffed past

long lines of empty commuter trains, past

suburbs thick with houses, past the milltowns

of Lawrence and Lowell, until the track curved

into New Hampshire's pastures of Holstein cattle.

My grandfather waited in his overalls at the depot

with horse and buggy to carry me to the farmhouse,

to fricasseed chicken, corn on the cob, and potatoes.

At nine o'clock, after shutting up the chickens

from skunk and fox, we sat by the cabinet radio

for Gabriel Heatter booming news of the war.
I slept through the night on my goosefeather bed.

-- Donald Hall

Hap Notes: Donald Hall grew up in Hamden, Connecticut but spent his summers at Eagle Pond Farm, his grandfather's farm in New Hampshire. This poem is about one of those trips to the farm, a slice of life from days gone past. Hall currently lives in this house which was originally bought by his great-grandfather.

Hall reminisces but read carefully how you can see, smell, hear and taste this experience in this short poem.

Hall's grandfather often recited poetry to the young poet as they were milking the cows or doing farm chores. (My grandpa did a similar thing while he sharpened lawnmower blades or fixed an ailing wringer washing machine in his repair shop– it was a generation who memorized poetry from their school years.) Hall often mentions how his grandpa had memorized the poems for a Lyceum, which means, in America anyway, a performance for the school usually done in the gymnasium or on the stage (if a school had one.) I remember having Lyceums at school when I was a kid, don't know if they call them that now.

Gabriel Heatter was a radio commentator and was known for his opening broadcast phrase "Good evening, everyone---there is good news tonight." Heatter's positive opening comforted many a radio listener during the dark days of WWII. (Heatter was a sensitive man who was purposely positive in order to keep up the nation's morale.)

It's amusing that the poet comments how he "ate everything right away" in the shoebox lunch his mom prepared for him. Train travel required such a lunch as there were few places to buy food at the various train depots at the time Hall is writing about. Even if there was food available on the train or at the depots it would have been pretty spendy. Most people brought their own lunch for a journey like this one. (The excitement of travel often made the lunches disappear before they were actually needed. I remember eating my bagged lunch on the school bus on days I was particularly nervous or excited. Which is pretty silly but there you have it.)

Now, why do you think the poet calls this "Goosefeathers." Doesn't it speak of soft, old-fashioned, homey comfort? And also, the light, ephemeral joys of childhood? Doesn't this memory float down to us like downy feathers?

Here is Hall talking about his life (and memories of the farm): www.webofstories.com/play/14776

Here is where we have talked about Hall before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/01/number-31-donald-hall-to-waterfowl.html

The masthead picture of a farm-type featherbed (like the one Hall speaks of) is available for sale as a print here:www.etsy.com/shop/SixSassySisters?section_id=10330456

Number 277: Louise Erdrich "Advice To Myself"

Advice To Myself

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

-- Louise Erdrich

Hap Notes: Of all the "advice" poetry one reads about being grateful or wearing a purple hat or taking time to do that grandmother of all the clichés –"smell the roses" – this is the poem that strikes me as most gritty and practical. Life is messy and we have a tendency to sweep away the clutter and the mess, sometimes at the expense of our own awareness of life.

The poet is making a point about the vibrant, the real, the spirited and the important things in life. There is certainly a value in keeping things well ordered and trying to hold back the chaos that is the life force. It, however, will always leak through. Why not celebrate it, embrace it, invite it in to have a cup of tea in a couple of cracked cups?

This, by the way, will not always be easy, fun or comfortable. It's not particularly about being comfortable or clean or even confident. It's about being brave enough to be uncomfortable, slightly soiled and vulnerable in life. Remember that all the folks on television who appear to be efficient, confident, well-groomed, successful and in command of their lives are fictional characters – they are illusions, and, evil ones, now that I think on it.

The Japanese have a term I like that describes the beauty of the transience of life: wabi sabi. It's about being fully awake and aware and seeing the extraordinary in the imperfect, the impermanent and the incomplete. Life is very much like that. Things will be left undone. Stuff breaks. The pieces are as beautiful as the whole, maybe even more beautiful. The mud grows the lotus. Dust bunnies may be visiting spirits to show you the worlds that exist around you (did you know that your living quarters probably contain millions of dust mites? You'll never get rid of them all- it's practically impossible.)

The Japanese feel that the flaw or imperfection in a thing reveals a meditation on life. A dead leaf can speak for all of nature, can bring your awareness to to the delicacy of the life cycle, can urge you to live with awareness right now. The disorder of the world can help you to find the authentic – the things that are nearest to your heart, the engine that makes your world go– the most important things that are often swirling in the chaos with no words to define them, just an intuition that your now is both vital and worth experiencing.

Here is where we have talked about Erdrich before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/09/number-270-louise-erdrich-that-pull.html

and here:
happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/number-167-louise-erdrich-dear-john.html

Today's masthead illustration is a kaliedoscopic photograph taken by Carolyn Ricks of one of her "junk" drawers. Thought it was fitting for today.

Number 276: Joe Paddock "Old Martin"

Old Martin

His name was Martin, Old Martin,
and he was bent in the back,
nearly double, and a great hump,
under his blue work shirt, rode him
like a buzzard.

For years, in the background
of the dust-filled memory of our town,
he'd swung
hundred pound sacks of feed
onto trucks and into boxcars.

Work was his passion.
He honed his love and his hate
against work,
and grew lean and folded into himself
like a jackknife.

In Garner's Pool Hall,
I listened while a man
whose belly rolled over his belt
like a dead goose
sipped a beer and said,
" Ol' Martin's all bent over like that
because he lost a quarter
when he was a small boy,
and he's been lookin' for it
ever since."

-- Joe Paddock

Hap Notes: Joe Paddock (born 1937) is was born and raised in Lichfield, Minnesota and much of his poetry is concerned with the rural life of a small town and the connection of people to the natural world around them. Paddock went to the University of Minnesota where he majored in philosophy and studied under the poets Morgan Blum, Allen Tate and Howard Nemerov (all poets we have yet to cover although we have covered their peers and students.)

He is also a "soft activist" for environmental issues and an oral historian who has coordinated a local history project in his home town of Lichfield. He has won many awards and fellowships including the Loft/McKnight Writer of Distinction Award and the Milkweed Editions Lakes and Prairies Award. He has been poet-in-residence for Minnesota Public Radio.

Much of Paddock's work is concerned with the story. Today's poem is reminiscent of the pithy story poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson or Edgar Lee Masters as the poet relates an incident in the life of a man and lets the incident define the characters.

For example, the fella in the bar who makes the comment about Mr. Martin – do you think he is being humorous or mean-spirited or both? Why does the humor seem particularly offensive? The Midwest is full of farmers, farm-hands and laborers who hone their "love and hate against work." What does the word hone imply? Do you see the connection with the jackknife?

This poem is a stunning succinct word picture that tells a very large story with very few words. There is much in this poem that is left unsaid – things the poet left for us to fill in. Do you see how the unspoken works successfully in this poem to draw out our emotions?

Paddock has written several volumes of poetry. This poem is from "Earth Tongues".

Here's a good Paddock quote: "When writing poetry, we allow in the wholeness, we welcome it. We work with images and rhythms capable of conveying, of carrying, wholeness. The reader or listener is in turn given an experience of wholeness, a moment in time that is complete, one in which he or she does not feel the need to change or control the world."

You can find more Joe Paddock here:
www.morning-earth.org/ARTISTNATURALISTS/AN_Paddock.html

Number 275: Ranier Maria Rilke "Autumn Day"

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time.
The summer was immense.

Lay your long shadows on the sundials,

and on the meadows let the winds go free.

Command the last fruits to be full;

give them just two more southern days,

urge them on to completion and chase

the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house now, will never build one.

Who is alone now, will long remain so,

will stay awake, read, write long letters

and will wander restlessly up and down
the tree-lined streets,
when the leaves are drifting.

-- Rainier Maria Rilke
Translated by Edward Snow

October Day

Oh Lord, it's time, it's time. It was a great summer.

Lay your shadow now on the sundials,

and on the open fields let the winds go!

Give the tardy fruits the command to fill;

give them two Mediterranean days,

drive them on into their greatness, and press

the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house by now will not build.

Whoever is alone now, will remain alone,

will wait up, read, write long letters,
and
walk along sidewalks under large trees,

not going home, as the leaves fall and blow away.

-- Rainier Maria Rilke
Translated by Robert Bly

Autumn Day

Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,

Lay your long shadows on the sundials,

And over harvest piles let the winds blow.

Command the last fruits to be ripe;

Grant them some other southern hour,

Urge them to completion, and with power

Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.

Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone.

No home will build his weary hands,

He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends

And will the alleys up and down

Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.

-- Rainier Maria Rilke
Translated by Guntram Deichsel

Autumn Day

Lord, it is time. The summer was long enough.
Lay your shadow upon the sundial and
loose the winds upon the corridors of the earth.

Order the last fruits to ripen;
give them only a couple of warm southern days,
command their ripeness to perfection and drive
the last bit of sweetness into the dense grapes.

Who has no house now, will build no more.
Who is alone now, will long stay so,
Will keep watch, sleepless, will read, write long letters
will wander back and forth on the streets
Restlessly amidst the swirling leaves.

-- Rainier Maria Rilke
Translated by Hap Mansfield

Hap Notes: Remember how we keep talking about translation being interpretation? These variations of Rilke say it all, do they not? I threw in my own stab at it just for another perspective. I'm not a particularly brilliant translator, I don't think, but it's not a terrible translation, anyway.

I think almost everyone at one point in the fall knows the sweet and sour sorrow Rilke is talking about.

This is the original German if you'd like to try it yourself:

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.

Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, 

und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage 

die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. 

Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,

wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben 

und wird in den Alleen hin und her 

unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

-- Rainier Maria Rilke


Here's where we've talked about Rilke before: http://happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/06/number-194-rainer-maria-rilke-archaic.html