There is a wistful charm, a tenderness,
Mysterious and soft, in autumn's even:
The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress,
The gory leaves to whispered talk are given;
Above the sad and orphaned earth the skies
Lie veiled and bleak, the sun's departure mourning,
And gusty winds with sudden anger rise,
Of pending storms the grim and chilly warning...
Fatigue, decline, and - over all - the worn
And wasting spirit's smile, doomed soon to vanish,
That lights a sufferer's face and that is born
Of modesty, the godlike pride of anguish.
Back to Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
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Comments1Gotta say, didn't really click with this one. Felt a bit too gloomy and wordy for my taste. Don't get me wrong, it's clear there's talent there but it just didn't resonate with me.