The summer was like a resort — you knew your way around. But then you needed to return to the desert of your heart. The lengthy solitude begins, the days turn dull again; the wind removes, like wilted leaves, the world you once could name. Through branches bare the sky looks down, the only sky you have; be ground now, evening song and land, with which this sky can blend. Be subject like a tool for use, mature and fit for much— so he, of whom we often heard, will know you at his touch.
Rilke, The Book of Hours