There Is A Spell In Autumn:
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 clamor,
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 (1803-1873)
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Posted by Kyle Keeton
Windows to Russia…