Текст оригинала на английском языке
AT last there came The sudden fall of frost, when Time Dreaming through russet September days Suddenly awoke, and lifting his head, strode Swiftly forward--made one vast desolating sweep Of his scythe, then, rapt with the glory That burned under his feet, fell dreaming again. And the clouds soared and the crickets sang In the brief heat of noon; the corn, So green, grew sere and dry-- And in the mist the ploughman's team Moved silently, as if in dream-- And it was Indian summer on the plain.
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