Autumn, by Alexander Sergeyevich PushkinOctober 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. |
