Autumn
Martyn Bates, Rainer Maria Rilke
The leaves are falling, falling is from far
As though above were withering farthest gardens
They fall with a denying attitude
And night by night, down into solitude
The heavy earth falls far from every star
We are all falling. This hand's falling too
All have this falling-sickness none withstands
And yet there's one whose gently-holding hands
This universal falling can't fall through