Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926)

THE LEAVES are falling, falling as from far,

As if far gardens in the skies were dying;

They fall, and ever seem to be denying.

And in the night the earth, a heavy ball,

Into a starless solitude must fall.

We all are falling. My own hand no less

Than all things else; behold, it is in all.

Yet there is One who, utter gentleness,

Holds all this falling in His hands to bless.