I don't pity, don't call, don't cry,
All will be gone, like haze from the white apple trees.
Seized by the gold of withering,
I will never be young again.

My heart, touched by the chill within,
You will not beat as before,
And the cotton birches of the countryside
No more will lure me to gad about barefoot.

Vagabond spirit! You're so rare, rare,
Waking flame in my mouth. It's now tense.
Oh, my freshness, that I couldn't spare.
Brawling eyes and overflowing sense!

I've become too greedy for desires.
Life of mine? Perhaps, it was a dream?
Me, alone, in early vernal hours
Riding a scarlet horse, as it could seem.

In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide.
Ever blest was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.

Yesenin