Sergey Esenin
In the clear cold the dales grow blue and tremble...

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 willows rock,

From empty glens, a slender arch ascending,
Fog curls upon the air and mosswise grows,
While evening, low above the river bending,
In its white waters washes his blue toes.

Translated by Babette Deutsch