Sergei Yesenin

Snowdrift, Piled Up, Is Now Brittle And Callous

Snowdrift, piled up, is now brittle and callous, Cold is the moon that shines from the height. Now I am back at my dear old house, And through the blizzard I see the light. Well, we are homeless but we do not suffer. I laud what I've got, without complain. Here I am back at my home having supper, Happy to see my old mother again. She looks, and I see that her eyes are in tears, Silently crying, as if all was right. Then, as she touches the cup, it appears Stubborn, about to slip and slide. Dear old mommy, my best and my tenderest, Get grievous reflection out of your head. Listen to me, to the song of the tempest I'll tell you about my life instead. Much have I seen and much have I travelled, Much have I loved, and suffered, too. I have caroused, stirred up trouble and revelled, And haven't seen anyone as worthy as you. Now having slipped off my shoes and my jacket, Warming myself by the bedside again, I have revived and, like in my childhood, I wish for good luck, and I hope not vain. Meanwhile the blizzard is gasping and sobbing Whirling in clouds of snow through the night. And I imagine, the leaves are a-falling Those of the lime-trees that grow outside.

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