Autumn rains have stirred the forest grey
The valley shivers in the morning wind
And from the chestnut tree the fruits crash down
Burst open, with laughter moist and brown.
My life has been disturbed by autumn too
The wind has ripped the shredded leaves away
And rattles branch by branch—where is the fruit?
I blossomed love, and yet the fruit was pain
I blossomed faith, and yet the fruit was hate.
The wind is tearing at my dried-up branches.
I laugh at it. I can withstand such storms.
What’s fruit to me? What’s purpose! Once I blossomed
And blossom was my purpose. Now I fade
And fading is my purpose, nothing else
For short-term are the purposes of the heart.
God lives in me, God dies in me, God suffers
Within my breast, and that’s sufficient purpose.
Right path or wrong, whether fruit or blossom
All is one, for all are merely names.
The valley shivers in the morning wind
And from the chestnut trees the fruits crash down
With laughter hard and bright. And I laugh with them.
This collapse into old age has its good side, because it makes us doubly indifferent to what goes on outside—to world history and to the joint-stock companies that drive it on.
From a letter written c1950 to Otto
Basler
Moving house gets more and more difficult with age, and in the end a hearse is more welcome than a removal van.
From a letter written on 15th April
1931 to Helene Welti
One becomes so undemanding in old age that if one has had a good night’s sleep and no severe pain, one is almost happy.
From a letter written in late August
1948 to Hans Huber