Dmitri Kedrin
Song of Autumn
Birds are flying overseas.
The time of harvest passed.
Rests on cold and greyish frieze
Withering leaves crust.
The sun hid in glassy fog,
Like behind silks.
As a black and brown fox
Wood lay by the hills.
A spider that predicts long storm
Slipped by aery steps
On the window it performed -
Crept and hung on nets.
Songs are heard in a flue at night.
On the hewn grey roofs
Squeaking spirits of fall are quiet,
Rain is beating aloof.
You will come some chilly day,
Early with the sun.
The yard is boring, what to say -
Flowers are gone.
The cold sweat on a wild ash
Will glitter on the twig,
And rain as a tiny thrush
Will peck fruit in a flick.