Sergei Yesenin

The Herd Of Horses

On the green hills a herd of horses strays; Their nostrils blow the gold dust from the days. From the high hills to the blue water's reach They shake and drop their manes as black as pitch. Over the quiet water their heads strain; The moon has caught them in a silver rein. Snorting in fear of their own shadows, they Must wait to toss their manes, wait till the day. . . . About the horses' ears the spring day rings With the first flies' delightful welcomings. But when the evening on the fields appears, The horses kick about and twitch their ears. Their ringing hooves sound fainter as they pass, Now fade in air, now hover in the grass. Only the water stretches to the star; Sorrows along its surface twinkle far. . . . The sun has set. Quiet is everywhere. Upon his horn a herdsman plays an air. With lowered heads, the herd stands listening To what the shaggy herdsman has to sing. And playful Echo into their lips glides And takes their thoughts to magic countrysides. I love your days, I love your nights' dark shade. My country, and for you this song I made.

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