Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | September 17, 2008


by Ruben Dario (1867 – 1916).


In Autumn


I know there are those who ask: Why does he not

sing with the same wild harmonies as before?

But they have not seen the labors of an hour

the work of a minute, the prodigies of a year.


I am an aged tree that, when I was growing,

uttered a vague, sweet sound when the breeze caressed me.

The time for youthful smiles has now passed by:

now, let the hurricane swirl my heart to song!



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: