Sergei Yesenin


After the snow, the piles of drying clay. The foothills sprout a mushroom mass. The wind is dancing about the plain, Like an affectionate red ass. Of pine and willow smells the air; Heaven slumbers now, and now sighs. In the pulpit of the forest there A sparrow reads his Psaltery. Last year's leaves litter the ravine Beneath the shrubs, a copper mass, And a man in a smock of sunshine Rides by on the russet ass. Softer than flax is His hair, But clouded his face and manner. The fir-trees bow before him there, And greet him with Hosanna!

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