Sergey Esenin
It can’t be dispelled, can this sorrow...

It can’t be dispelled, can this sorrow,
By the laughter of years long withdrawn.
All gone is my white linden blossom,
Sung — the song of the nightingale dawn.

Then all things were new to me, feelings
Were welling up, crowding my heart.
But now tender phrases even
From my lips fall bitter and tart.

Familiar views and expanses
By moonlight now seem not so fine.
Ravines ... tree-stumps ... bare slopes have saddened
These Russian horizons of mine.

Life that’s sickening, famished and lowly,
Grey watery wastes meet the eye.
All this is familiar and close to me,
That’s why I so readily cry.

A tumbledown cottage needs squaring,
A sheep bleats, a gaunt horse beyond
Stands waving a scraggy tail, staring
At a windswept uncomforting pond.

All this is what we call the homeland,
Because of all this we meanwhile
In rainy days cry and drink vodka
While waiting for heaven to smile.

That’s why you’ll not banish this sorrow
With the laughter of days long withdrawn.
All gone is my white linden blossom,
Sung — the song of the nightingale dawn.

Translated by Peter Tempest