Sergei Yesenin

Upon Green Hills Wild Droves Of Horses Blow

Upon green hills wild droves of horses blow The golden bloom off of the days that go. From the high hillocks to the blue-ing bay Falls the sheer pitch of heavy manes that sway. They toss their heads above the still lagoon Caught with a silver bridle by the moon. Snorting in fear of their own shadow, they, To screen it with their manes, await the day.

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