Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/191

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
Sergei Yesenin


Upon green hills wild droves of horses blow
The golden bloom off of the days that go.

From the high hillocks to the blue-ing bay
Falls the sheer pitch of heavy manes that sway.

They toss their heads above the still lagoon
Caught with a silver bridle by the moon.

Snorting in fear of their own shadow, they,
To screen it with their manes, await the day.