There is a wistful charm, a tenderness, <br />Mysterious and soft, in autumn's even: <br />The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress, <br />The gory leaves to whispered talk are given; <br />Above the sad and orphaned earth the skies <br />Lie veiled and bleak, the sun's departure mourning, <br />And gusty winds with sudden anger rise, <br />Of pending storms the grim and chilly warning... <br />Fatigue, decline, and - over all - the worn <br />And wasting spirit's smile, doomed soon to vanish, <br />That lights a sufferer's face and that is born <br />Of modesty, the godlike pride of anguish.<br /><br />Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-evening/
