The rowan trees grew red,
The water turned bright blue.
The sullen moon's horse rode
With its reins falling loose.
From the gloom a blue swan,
Out of the grove, swims.
With miraculous force he's borne
Up on his great wings.
This is your land, and mine,
Ageless plowman who yowls,
Drooping your head down
Toward the Volga beneath the willows.
You got up refreshed at dawn
And called upon your Savior,
Accompanied by the song of the swan,
Caressed by a rainbow of color.
You give thanks as sun sinks low
To the redeemer of every sin.
The smell of oncoming snow
Spreads on the fresh wind.
But my invisible trembling
Helps the chill go away...
I speak from the wet storm impending,
I, Esenin, Sergei.