The crimson summer now grows pale;

Clear, bright days now soar away;

Hazy mist spreads through the vale,

As the sleeping night turns gray;

The barren cornfields lose their gold;

The lively stream has now turned cold;

The curly woods are gray and stark,

And the heavens have grown dark.

Where are you, my light, Natasha?

No one’s seen you,—I lament.

Don’t you want to share the passion

Of this moment with a friend?

You have not yet met with me

By the pond, or by our tree,

Though the season has turned late,

We have not yet had a date.

Winter’s cold will soon arrive

Fields will freeze with frost, so bitter.

In the smoky shack, a light,

Soon enough, will shine and glitter.

I won’t see my love,—I’ll rage

Like a finch, inside a cage,

And at home, depressed and dazed,

I’ll recall Natasha’s grace.