Sergey Yesenin — I'm not begging, weeping or complaining

I'm not begging, weeping or complaining.

All will pass like blooming apples' white smoke.

Captivated by the gold of fading,

I will not be youthful anymore.

You'll no longer flutter as you used to,

Heart, corrupted by a touch of cool.

And the country of birch chintz accouter 

Will not lure to ramble barefoot.

You, nomadic spirit, stir the ambers  

Of the flame of lips far rarer now.

You, alas, my dissipated freshness,

Storm of eyes and frantic tide of love!

Now, I'm scantier in my desires.

Life, if I have only been asleep.

Like on a resonant spring early hour,

I have galloped by astride a pink steed.

In this world, we all are doomed to perish.

Maples slowly pour down brass of leaves.

Shall you be forever, ever blessed,

That has come to bloom, wither and decease.