Sergei Yesenin

A Tired Day

When a tired day bowed down to the night The waves fell still, the birds wouldn't fly, The sun set down over the hills (what a sight!) And musingly the moon floated in the sky. In the vale, the peaceful silvery brook Babbled sweet nothings to the hushed dale, While dark forest, dreamily bowed and took In the trills of the nightingale's long tale, Attentive to the songs and the quiet bustle, The river whispered, caressing the banks. On the hill above, the reeds gently rustled Happily singing, (or giving their thanks).

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