Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/194

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Sergei Yesenin


Eh, Russians,
Fowlers of the universe.
You who trailed heaven with the net of dawn,
Lift your trumpets!

Beneath the plow of storm
The dumb earth roars.
Golden-tusked, the colter breaks
The cliffs.

A new sower
Roams the fields.
New seeds
He casts into the furrows.

A guest of light drives toward us
In a coach.
Across the clouds
A mare races.

The breech-band on the mare:
The blue;
The bells on the breech-band:
The stars.