Come to the Park

Stefan George

Come into the park declared long dead, and look:
the shimmer of distant, smiling shores.
The clear clouds’ unexpected blue
lights up the ponds and the patterned paths.
There take the deep yellow, the soft grey
of birch and boxwood; the wind is mild.
The late roses have not yet quite withered.
Choose them, kiss them, and weave a wreath.
Do not forget these final asters either,
the purple among the tendrils of wild vine,
and also what remains of green life
gently dissolving in the autumnal face.