Autumn Evening


Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

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.


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