The leaves are falling, falling as from far, 
from wilting in the heavens’ distant gardens: 
They’re falling to deny the summer’s mirth. 

And in the nights the heavy Earth 
falls into solitude from star to star. 

We all are falling. See my hand: it is falling. 
And look at others: It’s in all their calling. 

And yet there’s One, who’s holding all this falling,  
with endless tenderness, in His upturned hands.

Rilke,  Autumn