Mist climbs from the lake.
Fields bare after harvest.
Beyond blue hills
the sun rolls to its rest.
Splintered, deep in ruts,
the weary road thinks
it cannot be long now
till grey-haired winter.
In the misty, resonant grove
I watched yesterday
as a bay moon, like a foal,
harnessed herself to our sleigh.
by Сергей Александрович Есенин (Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin) a.k.a. Sergey Yesenin / Esenin
(1917)
translated by Robert Chandler
Rambling At The Bridge Head 