Sergey Esenin
This present sadness is not eased...

This present sadness is not eased
By the light laugh of bygone days.
My white lime-tree has gone to seed,
And sung is my dawn of nightingales.

Then everything around seemed young
To me, and passions thronged my heart;
Now even the tender word is wrung
Like bitter fruitage from my lips.

Familiar sights of space no more
Are beautiful under the moon.
Ravines and hillsides, fields of hemp,
All sadden Russia’s endlessness.

Unhealthy, ailing, flat, this drear
Grey waterlogged terrain to me
Is second nature, and so near
My tears spring all too easily.

Small houses, ricketty and frail;
Sheep bleat, and far off in the wind
A horse shakes its abundant tail
Mirrored out in water grey and unkind.

For this we call this land our mother,
All these things we hymn and praise;
Weep for her in the foulest weather,
Await the smiles of better days.

Wherefore this sadness is not eased
With laughter as when we were young.
My white lime-tree has gone to seed,
My dawn of nightingales is sung.

Translated by Geoffrey Thurley