Forest, as if we are looking at a painted

The forest, as if we are looking at a painted one,
Purple, gold, crimson,
With a cheerful, colorful wall
Stands over a bright glade.

Birch yellow carving
Shine in the azure blue,
Like towers, Christmas trees darken
And between the maples turn blue

Here and there in the foliage through
Clearances in the sky, that little window.
The forest smells like oak and pine
Over the summer he dried up from the sun,

And Autumn is a quiet widow
He enters his motley tower ...
I. A. Bunin