Fyodor Tyutchev
Exists in the autumnal growing...

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…

Translated by Boris Leyvi