Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin
Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin Poems
No Sorrow, No Calls, No Tears...(Translated From Russian)
No sorrow, no calls, no tears.
Now it's gone, white foam from apple-tree.
Faded, seized by tarnished golden flares,
I will not feel youthful. Never me.
Now you slow down, that's the matter,
You, my heart, that suffered a cold jet.
And the land of calico birch pattern
Hardly tempts my feet to walk o'er that.
Hobo spirit! You're so rare, rare,
Waking flame in mouth. It's now tense.
Oh, my freshness, that I couldn't spare.
Brawling eyes and overflowing sence!
I've become too greedy for desires.
Life of mine? Perhaps, it was a dream?