I do not regret, and I do not shed tears,

All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass.

Turning gold, I'm fading, it appears,

I will not be young again, alas.

Having got to know the touch of coolness

I will not feel, as before, so good.

And the land of birch trees, - oh my goodness!-

Cannot make me wander barefoot.

Vagrant's spirit! You do not so often

Stir the fire of my lips these days.

Oh my freshness, that begins to soften!

Oh my lost emotions, vehement gaze!

Presently I do not feel a yearning,

Oh, my life! Have I been sleeping fast?

Well, it feels like early in the morning

On a rosy horse I've galloped past.

We are all to perish, hoping for some favor,

Copper leaves flow slowly down and sway...

May you be redeemed and blessed for ever,

You who came to bloom and pass away...

  Serguei Iessenin

(1924-1925)