I don’t know how the poem will be in English, Google translates)) Niva harvested, groves of goals, Water and fog are damp. Wheel behind the blue mountains The quiet sun has sunk down. The blasted road is dozing. She noticed today What really, just a little Waiting for the gray-haired winter left. Ah, and I myself am more often voiced I saw yesterday in the fog: Red month foal Harnessed to our sleigh (S. Yesenin)