I love a Russian birch

I love a Russian birch.

Sometimes she's light,

but at other times she's sad.

In the white sundress,

kerchiefs in her pockets,

with beautiful clasps

and green earrings.

I love her standing over the river

in her festive mantle.

Sometimes she is bright and exuberant;

sometimes she's sad and crying.

I love the Russian birch.

She's always with her girlfriends

dancing in the spring

and kissing, as it happens.

She goes to where she'd want to

and sings at places nobody else does.

In the wind, she bows to her feet,

and bends, but does not break!

Alexander Prokofiev (1900 — 1971)