Already Autumn chilled the sky,

The tiny sun shone less on high

And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom

Were stripped with melancholy sound,

Upon the earth a mist did lie

And many a caravan on high

Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand -

November at the gate did stand.

XXXI.

The morn arises foggy, cold,

The silent fields no peasant nears,

The wolf upon the highways bold

With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the passing horse

snorts, and his rider bends his course

And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will

Drive out the cattle from their shed,

Nor at the hour of noon with sound

Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid

Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,

The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

XXXII.

Already crisp hoar frosts impose

O'er all a sheet of silvery dust

(Readers expect the rhyme of rose,

There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice

The shining river clothed in ice;

A joyous troop of little boys

Engrave the ice with strident noise.