There is a spell in autumn early,

　　One all too brief, of an enchantment rare:

　　The nights are radiant and pearly,

　　The days, pellucid, crystal-clear.

　　Where played the sickle and fell the corn, a mellow,

　　A warm and breathless stillness reigns supreme；

　　Spanning the brown and idle furrow,

　　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 azure glow

　　Of skies that have not lost the warmth of summer.