Sergey Yesenin — Both this street and this little house 

Both this street and this little house 

  Have been long so familiar to me.

  Up the window the blue straws of wires

  Are weighed down as they once used to be.

  There"ve been years of austere contingency

  Years of vehement endeavours, too.

  I remember my village, my infancy

  And the countryside heaven of blue.

  I did not search for fame and complacence

  For I know all the price of reward.

  As I sleep now I fancy the presence

  Of my near and dear abode.

  There's the garden in livid speckles,

  August sleeps on the railing lines.

  Chirping birds fly around in circles

  And repose in the clutches of limes.

  I was fond of this wooden house,

  Logs had menacing heated might,

  Our stove would let out strange howls

  As we tended the fire at night.

  It was wailing loud like funnel

  As if mourning and suffering pain.

  What on earth did he see, mason"s camel,

  In the pouring and  howling rain?

  Well, it probably saw distant bounds

  And the dream of a blooming phase,

  Like Afghanistan"s sandy grounds

  And Bukhara"s translucent haze.

  Well, I know very well those locations

  I"ve been there as a travelling man.

  Now I want to select destinations

  But as close to my home as I can.

  .

  Golden slumbers have now faded out,

  All has vanished in haze like foam.

  Peace to you, grasses scattered about,

  Peace to you, wooden parents" home!