Sergei Yesenin

IN the clear cold the dales grow blue and tremble;

The iron hoofs beat sharply, knock on knock.

The faded grasses in wide skirts assemble

Flung copper where the wind-blown branches rock.

From empty straths, a slender arch ascending:

Fog curls upon the air and, moss-wise, grows,

And evening, low above the wan streams bending,

In their white waters washes his blue toes.