Fyodor Tyutchev (1803–1873)

THE LIGHT of autumn evenings seems a screen,

Some mystery with tender glamor muffling….

The trees in motley, cloaked in eerie sheen,

The scarlet leaves that languid airs are ruffling,

The still and misty azure, vaguely far,

Above the earth that waits her orphan sorrow,

And bitter winds in gusty vagrance are

Forerunners of a bleak, storm-driven morrow.

The woods are waning; withered is the sun;

Earth shows the smile of fading, meekly tender

As the high shyness of a suffering one,

In noble reticence of sad surrender.