Sergei Yesenin

The Storm

Leaves atremble, the maples rocked. They scattered pollen like powdered brass. Winds blew and green forest sighted. The echo whispered with dried feather - grass, Gloomy storm at the window cries bending twigs toward the murky glass. Shaking morosely, as if dismayed, They gaze into semi-darkness, alas... Black clouds keep creeping from afar. Ferociously swell the river, the waves roar; Like strong arms brandishing a scimitar, they keep crashing again and they soar.

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