unlitstairs

dataobscura:

The hours of August still wind you
in scents of the mild garden air,
Ivy and speedwell still bind you
A wreath for your wind-tangled hair.

Like gold is the wavering wheat, though
Perhaps less exultant and full,
Late-blooming roses still great, though
The sheen of their colours grew dull.

Then let us conceal what defies us
And turn to felicity, for
The one thing which is not denied us
Is walking together once more.

Stefan George
from The Year of the Soul (1897)
(trans Olga Marx & Ernst Morwitz)