In Sergei Yesenin's poetry, the birch is more than just a tree; it is a symbol of Russia, its sorrow and beauty. Its slender frame, white bark, and rustling leaves imbued the poet's lyric poetry with a special, poignant feeling. Yesenin's image of the birch is multifaceted: it is a tender maiden, a faithful friend, and the embodiment of a homeland left far away. These poems express a yearning for the fading village, for the simple joys and pure beauty of Russian nature. The birch is a living connection to one's roots, to the past, to the very soul of Russia.
Content
Collapse
Birch
The white birch tree under my window covered itself with yarn in a dark twilight.
Covered with white snow...
White snow covers the fields and roads. And the birch tree, like a maiden, stands in a white shroud.
My fallen maple...
My fallen maple, why are you bowing, friend? Birches, like sisters, greet partings.
I don’t regret, I don’t call…
I don't regret, I don't call, I don't mourn the separation. Everything will pass, like a leaf from a white birch tree, dropped to the ground, boredom.
The birch tree whispers under the window...
The birch tree under the window whispers, As if weaving a fairy tale for me. About the past, about the golden happiness that lives in my soul.
The golden grove dissuaded...
The golden grove has spoken, the cheerful tongue of the birch. I do not regret, I do not call, I do not cry, Everything will be as before, in the fields.
Birches in the field, like candles...
Birches in the field, like candles, burn in the evening silence. Their white trunks, like speeches, sing to me about their homeland.
The feather grass sleeps, washed by dew...
The feather grass sleeps, washed by dew, And the birch quietly sighs. Slightly touched by the gentle wind, It whispers something about the past in response.
Fields, forests, and open spaces...
Fields, forests, and open spaces, And a birch, like a guard, at the gate. In it are sorrow and hope and pride, And Russia's forgotten flight.
White birch, like a maiden...
A white birch, like a maiden, stands in a green sarafan. And her long braid, like wheat, trembles tenderly in the gentle wind.
The birch tree bent over the river...
The birch tree leaned over the river, its branches lowered into the water. As if in a mirror it saw a heart, a reflection of the days lived.
In a birch grove, in silence...
In the birch grove, in silence, I forget grief and pain. I hear only the rustling of leaves, and the peace of Russian nature.
Russian birches, bright dreams...
Russian birches, bright dreams, In them I see my childhood. And the scent of grass, and the singing of spring, and the blue of the bottomless sky.
The birches near the fence are withering...
The birches by the fence are withering, their leaves are turning yellow like gold. And sadness is pouring into my heart, about the summer that has passed, about the happiness that was lost.
Birch, my friend, you stand...
Birch, my friend, you stand, in eternal silence, in deep sorrow. And the wind quietly whistles in your branches, about the fate of Russia, about cruel life.