Minute beauty fields,
The flower is withered, lonely,
You are deprived of your charms
The hand of autumn is cruel.
Alas! we have the same inheritance,
And the same fate oppresses us:
Since you leaflet flew -
From us, the fun flies off.
We take off every day from us
Or a dream, or pleasure.
And everyone destroys an hour
A miserable heart is deceit.
Look ... there is no charm;
The Star of Hope fades ...
Alas! who will say: life or color
Faster in the world disappears?
Author: Vasily Zhukovsky
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