Our evanescent northern summer parodies winter in the south;
it's like a vanishing newcomer -
but here me must control our mouth.
The sky breathed autumn, time was flowing,
and good old sun more seldom glowing;
the days grew shorter, in the glade
with mournful sound the secret shade
was stripped away, and mists encroaching lay on the fields; in caravan
the clamorous honking geese began their southward flight: one saw approaching
the season which is such a bore -
November stood outside the door.
Alexander Pushkin, great Russian poet. Eugene Onegin (tr. Ch. Johnston)