Upon green hills wild droves of horses blow
The golden bloom off of the days that go.
From the high hillocks to the blue-ing bay
Falls the sheer pitch of heavy manes that sway.
They toss their heads above the still lagoon
Caught with a silver bridle by the moon.
Snorting in fear of their own shadow, they,
To screen it with their manes, await the day.
Sergei Yesenin (1895 - 1925) Russia
Translated by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky