Sergei Yesenin

the night

The tired day droops, slowly waning, the noisy waves are now tranquil. The sun has set, the moon is sailing above the world, absorbed and still. The valley listens to the babbles of peaceful river in the dale. The forest, dark and bending, slumbers to warbling of the nightingale. The river, listening in and fondling, talks with the banks in quiet hush. And up above resounds, a-rolling, the merry rustle of the rush.

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