There is, at the first beginning of fall 
a brief, but extraordinary time — 
The whole day turns as it were to crystal, 
and the evenings are sublime . . . 
Where a lively sickle felled the grain, 
Nothing but emptiness everywhere — 
glimmering in an idle furrow 
only a spiderweb's thin hair. 
Air empties out, birds are heard no more, 
but far off the first winter storms already — 
and a clean and temperate azure 
pours over the resting field . . .