Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they… - Alexander Pushkin

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Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they’re here! The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand; November marched across the land.