Sergei Yesenin

In The Clear Cold The Dales Grow Blue And Tremble

In the clear cold the dales grow blue and tremble; The iron hoofs beat sharply, knock on knock. The faded grasses in wide skirts assemble Flung copper where the wind-blown willows rock, From empty glens, a slender arch ascending, Fog curls upon the air and mosswise grows, While evening, low above the river bending, In its white waters washes his blue toes.

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