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Description: Russian translation by Boris PasternaknRead by Anna BarkernnThat time of year thou mayst in me beholdnWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangnUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,nBare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.nIn me thou see'st the twilight of such daynAs after sunset fadeth in the west,nWhich by and by black night doth take away,nDeath's second self, that seals up all in rest.nIn me thou see'st the glowing of such firenThat on the ashes of his youth doth li
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