There is a spell in autumn early,

One all too brief, of an enchantment rare:

The nights are radiant and pearly,

The days, pellucid, crystal-clear.

Where played the sickle and fell the corn, a mellow,

A warm and breathless stillness reigns supreme;

Spanning the brown and idle furrow,

A dainty thread of cobweb gleams.

The birds have flown, we hear no more their clamour,

But winter's angry winds not soon will start to blow -

Upon the empty fields there pours the azure glow

Of skies that have not lost the warmth of summer.

Fyodor Tyutchev (1803-1873)