Autumn, by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
October has arrived - the woods have tossed
their final leaves from naked branches;
A breath of autumn chill - the road begins to freeze,
The stream still murmurs as it passes by the mill,
The pond, however's frozen; and my neighbor hastens
to his far-flung fields with all the members of his hunt.
The winter wheat will suffer from this wild fun,
and baying hounds awake the slumbering groves.