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A golden grove has ceased at last its chatter In a merry accent of its birches' tongue. Afar, a flight of cranes, dejected, flutter, No more lamenting over anyone. Who to lament for? In this world, we're strangers: Go by, come in and leave the house anon. The gone are summoned up by but a hemp-close And a harvest moon above a bluish pond. I'm all alone amid a barren...

Я покинул родимый край, голубую оставил Русь Всем поклонникам Есенина обязательно к просмотру!