Fyodor Tyutchev
There is a fleeting, wondrous moment...

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.

Translated by Frank Jude