Текст оригинала на английском языке
SPRING scarce had greener fields to show than these Of mid September; through the still warm noon The rivulets ripple forth a gladder tune Than ever in the summer; from the trees Dusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies, No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoon In pallid skies more suddenly, and the moon Finds motionless white mists out on the leas. Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god's lair A month hence, gazing on the last bright field, To sink o'er-drowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blew Around my head and feet silently there, Till Spring's glad choir adown the valley pealed, And violets trembled in the morning dew.
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