The sky with autumn’s breath is clouded,

More often now the sun is shrouded;

Shorter and shorter grow the days,

Sad rustling fills the woodland ways,

With all their mysteries laid bare;

Southward stretch the caravans

Of wild geese, in noisy clans,

And, mist on meadows everywhere,

A tedious season we await,

Who find November at the gate.

(Alexander Pushkin, tr. A. S. Kline)

Actually, the original Russian talks about the process of the woods slowly revealing their mysteries as autumn charges onward, which is what I illustrated.