Each one renounces dance and song,
the mild air is pleasant,
and the season invites ever-increasingly
to savour a sweet slumber.

The hunters at dawn go to the hunt,
with horns and guns and dogs they sally forth,
the beasts flee, their trail is followed.

Already dismay'd and exhausted, from the great noise
of guns and dogs, threaten'd with wounds,
they flee, languishing, and die, cowering.

Autumn from Vivaldi's Four Season Sonnets.