Текст оригинала на английском языке
THE tale of wake is told; the stage is bare, The curtain falls upon the ended play; November's fogs arise, to hide away The withered wrack* of that which was so fair: [ruin] Summer is gone to be with things that were. The sun is fallen from his ancient sway; The night primaeval trenches* on the day: [encroaches] upon Without, the Winter waits upon the stair. Stern herald of the wintry wrath to come, The mist-month treads upon October's feet, Muting the small birds' songs, the insects' hum, And all involving in its winding-sheet, 'Graves on the frontal of the failing year, "All hope abandon, ye who enter here!"
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