There is a spell in autumn early,

　　One all too brief, of an enchantment¹ rare:

　　The nights are radiant and pearly,

　　The days, pellucid², crystal-clear.

　　Where played the sickle³ and fell the corn, a mellow⁴,

　　A warm and breathless stillness reigns⁵ supreme⁶；

　　Spanning the brown and idle furrow⁷,

　　A dainty thread of cobweb gleams.

　　The birds have flown, we hear no more their clamour,

　　But winter's angry winds not soon will start to blow -

　　Upon the empty fields there pours the azure⁸ glow

　　Of skies that have not lost the warmth of summer.