In Early Autumn by Fyodor Tyutchev, translated by Anatoly Liberman.
In early autumn sweetly wistful,
there is a short but wonderous interim,
when days seem made as though of crystal,
with evenings luminously dim...
Without their tillers, empty fields look wider;
where sickles ravaged in the harvester’s ebb,
a single thread left by a spider
still speaks of the unravelled web.
Warblers have gone, afraid of future shadows,
yet far away is winter’s firstborn storm,
and heaven pours its azure, pure and warm,
on quietly resting fields and meadows...
Autumn by Sergei Esenin, translated by Evelyn Bristol.
Silence. In the junipers atop the valley,
Autumn — a roam mare — rubs her mane for dressing.
Well above the wooded river banks —
That's the dark blue clang her horseshoes make.
Wind, a monk, walks past with wary footsteps
Holding back the foliage on the pathways,
Kissing, when he comes upon the mountain ash,
Crimson wounds that are the marks of Christ unseen.
Autumn in a Summer Garden by Dmitry Merezhkovsky, translated by Roger Robison.
Along a misty garden way,
With autumn foliage on display,
A child with smiling innocence
Is picking up a strange bouquet.
As shadows lengthen into night,
His lively eyes devour the view.
October's light has made more bright
The dying bouquet's vivid hue.
The more the evening light grows dim,
And twilight fades away to dark,
More gleeful does his laughter brim,
Most sounding like a joyful lark.
To him the autumn time is bliss,
And leaf fall is part of the same.
The withered leaves don't seem amiss;
Their death is no more than a game.