In some summers there is so much fruit,
the peasants decide not to reap any more.
Not having reaped you, oh my days,
my nights, have I let the slow flames
of your lovely produce fall into ashes?

My nights, my days, you have borne so much!
All your branches have retained the gesture
of that long labor you are rising from:
my days, my nights. Oh my rustic friends!

I look for what was so good for you.
Oh my lovely, half-dead trees,
could some equal sweetness still
stroke your leaves, open your calyx?

Ah, no more fruit! But one last time
bloom in fruitless blossoming
without planning, without reckoning,
as useless as the powers of millenia.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 2806 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Rainer Maria Rilke
Poem: Growing Old

There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Growing Old, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Rainer Maria Rilke with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!