Autumn in Sergei Yesenin's poetry is not just a season, but a state of mind, permeated with a poignant longing for vanishing beauty and youth. His short poems about autumn are moments of captivating sadness, quiet elegies, and reflections on the transience of existence. They bring to life golden groves, crimson sunsets, and the sad motifs of village life, tinged with melancholy tones. Yesenin's autumn is a farewell to warmth, a premonition of cold and the inevitability of change, but at the same time, it evokes the unique, alluring charm of decay.
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The golden grove dissuaded...
The golden grove spoke with a cheerful birch tongue. Away with sadness, away with melancholy, strolling, Greet autumn with a quiet light. Soon the birds will fly away, and the field will turn gray as ash. But autumn will burn out in the heart, and the memory of the past will be bright.
Rowan
The scarlet rowan berries glow in the garden, like sparks of long-ago summer dreams. And the wind whispers: "Soon, to our misfortune, a snowstorm will cover us in a white sheet." But this sadness has its own beauty, in the crimson leaves, in the silence of the fields. And autumn, like a quiet tear, sheds colors at our home's door.
Autumn day
An autumn day, like a faded portrait, its colors faded and its light quiet and sad. And the sun, like a kind old grandfather, looks down on the earth, following summer's trail. The fields are foggy, the air is cold, and the forest stands in pensive silence. Only the wind howls, as if hungry, and whispers tales of an old, gray soul.
Withering
The colors of the fields fade, And the trees shed their attire. All around is silent, in autumn dreams, And only the wind wanders, like a wandering old man, happy. But in fading there is its own sadness, And beauty, and wisdom of quiet days. Autumn is the end of life, And a foretaste of winter's snowy shadows.
Crimson
The crimson of the maples, like the blood of dawn, painted the groves in a fiery attire. And the quiet whisper of the passing season left a sad look in my soul. Soon the leaves will fly in the wind, and cover the earth with a golden carpet. But autumn will forever imprint itself on my heart, both the memory of the past and the quiet, bright home.
Autumn sadness
Autumn sadness, like a haze over a river, envelops the heart and the fields. And the world seems completely alien, with no room for joy or warmth. But this sadness has its own beauty, in the crimson leaves, in the silence of the fields. And autumn, like a quiet tear, sheds colors at the familiar door.
Sunset
The sunset glows red in the sky like a fire, And long shadows fall across the fields. The day fades, and with it the heat, And autumn whispers: "Winter is coming soon." But this sunset holds its own dream, Of silence, of peace, of love. And the heart freezes like leaves, In anticipation of the coming winter silence.
Silence
Autumn silence, like a soft sigh, envelops groves and fields. And it seems as if time has stood still, leaving no room for vanity or evil. Only the wind whispers in the treetops, and the leaves swirl in a slow dance. And autumn gives us its melodies, in anticipation of the coming winter trance.
The last flowers
The last flowers, wilted in the dew, bowed their heads in a quiet, sad haze. Their petals, like letters from heaven, remind us of the past spring. But their wilting has its own beauty, in the crimson of the leaves, in the silence of the fields. And autumn, like a quiet tear, sheds colors at our home's door.
Autumn evening
The autumn evening is quiet and golden, A misty veil spreads over the field. And the heart fills with melancholy, For the past summer, For joy, For sorrow. But in this sadness there is its own consolation, In the crimson leaves, in the silence of the fields. And autumn gives us its reward, In anticipation of the coming winter days.
Smoke over the river
Smoke over the river, like a ghostly veil, conceals the distance in a twilight silence. And the heart feels the autumn chill, and whispers tales of an old, gray soul. Soon the birds will fly away, and the field will turn gray as ash. But in the heart autumn will burn out, and the memory of the past will be bright.
Golden Cornfield
A golden field, quiet and empty, Only the wind wanders like a free horse. And autumn whispers: "Life is not eternal, yes, But in every moment there is its own goodness, touch." Soon the snow will cover everything around, And the field will turn white as a canvas. But in the heart there will be the sound of autumn, And the memory of the past, like a bright fast.
The last leaf
The last golden leaf swirls above my head, like a quiet, sad dream. And autumn whispers: "The world is not eternal, my dear, But every withering has its own law." Soon a blizzard will howl outside the window, And the forest will fall asleep in silver silence. But in the heart there will be a bow to autumn, And memories of the past, like the light of the soul.
Autumn dawns
Autumn dawns, pale and silent, have painted the sky a rosy mist. And sad, quiet, simple thoughts are born in my soul, like deception. But this deception has its own beauty, in the crimson leaves, in the silence of the fields. And autumn gives us its eyes, in anticipation of the coming winter days.
Farewell, my garden...
Farewell, my garden, withered and faded, Farewell, my home, in autumn silence. The day passes, and with it the evening, And autumn whispers: "See you in spring." But in my heart will be the memory of you, Of golden gardens, of quiet evenings. And autumn, like a silent prayer, Sheds leaves on mournful, sad days.