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.