When skies are colourless
The acorn falls,
Dies; so for this space
Autumn is motionless.
Because the sun
So hesitates in this decay,
I think we still could turn,
Speak to each other in a different way;
For ways of speaking die,
And yet the sun pardons our voices still,
And berries in the hedge
Through all the nights of rain have come to the full,
And death seems like long hills, a range
We ride each day towards, and never reach.
17 November 1945, In The Grip Of Light