By Sergei Yesenin
Moon's above my window. Wind is under the window.
A poplar-tree, all naked, is glaring in silver.
The remote weep of 'ccordeon, distant voice alone -
Close to my heart so, distant being though.
Song is crying, laughing, jaunty in its manner.
Where is my lime-tree, aged at least a century?
I was also eager there in the past times
To wake up in morning with an accordeon widened.
But today my lovely pays me no attention,
So I'm laughing, crying after songs, but alien.
August 1925