Exists in the autumnal growing
A brief, but an enchanting phase:
The day – as if in crystal glowing,
The dusk – in the resplendent glaze.

Where ears fell to zesty sickle’s rending,
It’s bare around; through a widespread range
Glows only, thinning and unbending,
A web string on an idle trench.

The air’s depleting, quiet – birds have pealed,
Of nascent wintry storms there isn’t a clue,
And pours the warm and the transparent blue
Onto a resting field…

Fyodor Tyutchev
Translated by Boris Leyvi

There is a fleeting, wondrous moment
during autumn’s early days:
time stands motionless, time’s a crystal,
evenings bathe in brilliant rays.

Where sickles swung and crops were toppled,
there’s just an empty wasteland now.
A strand of glittering web is all you notice
across an idle track cut by a plough.

The air has emptied. Birds no longer chatter,
though there’s some time to wait for winter’s snow and rain,
and pure and warm, a gentle blue is flowing
across the resting plains.

Fyodor Tyutchev
Translated by F.Jude

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.

Fyodor Tyutchev
Translated by ???