Sergei Yesenin, a poet of "dawning" expanses and a restless soul, had a particularly keen sense of the beauty of femininity. His poems about women are always more than just descriptions of appearances, but also a reflection of an entire world, naive and beautiful, fading into the past. The image of a girl in white, a symbol of purity and innocence, is a frequent presence in his poetry, embodying dreams of a bright future and simultaneously a premonition of inevitable sorrow. This collection is dedicated to this very motif\u2014the fragile and elusive beauty captured in Yesenin's words. Allow yourself to immerse yourself in Yesenin's world of love and melancholy.<\/p>\n
\nI don't regret, I don't call, I don't mourn the separation. Everything will pass, as if from a white bend, Only white guarantee. In this girl, in white, Like the spring blossoms of apple trees, I see a reflection of happy days, And the languor of my soul. But the shadow fades, disappears, The road calls me into the distance. And she is only a bright day, That will not return from the threshold.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nThe golden grove dissuaded...<\/h2>\n
\nThe golden grove spoke, the cheerful tongue of the birch trees. And the girl in white, unearthly, left a cry in my soul. A cry quiet, gentle, like the sigh of the wind, like the whisper of grass in the evening silence. She passed like a bright song, and my heart sank. And it seems that in her white dress she conceals the sadness of days gone by. And in the heavens, as if in nobility, the stars shine, looking into our eyes.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nLetter to mother<\/h2>\n
\nA letter to my mother, not about myself, but about the one in white, like an angel from heaven. She is as dear to my heart as a field in a hut, and her gaze is as pure as dew on the grass. I saw her by the river, by the fence, in the garden where the snow-white cherry blossoms bloomed. And a quiet spark of fire lit in my heart, and in my thoughts there is only her, only her.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nMy fallen maple...<\/h2>\n
\nMy fallen maple, my frozen maple, that reminds me of a girl in white, in the distance. Like a gentle ghost, timid in the haze, she flashed across my ship. And in her eyes there is sadness, and in her smile there is sorrow, like the autumn sun shining through the clouds. And my heart yearns, and my soul is tormented, for the one in white, who is kept in my heart.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nShagane, you are mine, Shagane...<\/h2>\n
\nShagane, you are mine, Shagane, But it is not you in white that I see. Another, as if in a sweet dream, Dawn burns in my soul. She stands, like a weeping willow, Over a quiet river, in the moonlight. And my heart beats, trembling, painfully, For the one in white, for my dream.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nWhite birch<\/h2>\n
\nA white birch tree, like a girl in white, stands by the road, looking sadly. And the wind plays with her long braid, and her heart yearns, and her soul aches. She is like a symbol of a bygone Russia, of freedom and will, and a bright dream. And in her white dress, as in a fairy tale, she is beautiful, but in her eyes there is sadness, and in her heart \u2013 bridges.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nThe feather grass sleeps. The dear plain\u2026<\/h2>\n
\nThe feather grass sleeps. The dear plain. And in the evening haze, barely visible, the girl in white, like a sacred dream, remains alone in my soul. She passed, like a light vision, like the whisper of grass, like the singing of birds. And in my heart she left only languor, and in my memory \u2013 the light of her face.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nI am the last poet of the village...<\/h2>\n
\nI am the last poet of the village, and in my verses there is a quiet sadness. About the girl in white, unfaithful, Whom she may have left in her heart. She went to the city, into the bustle, Forgetting about the fields and meadows. And I remained, like a faithful rod, With longing for her bright eyes.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nKachalov's dog<\/h2>\n
\nTo Kachalov's dog, but it's not her I'm sad about, But the one in white, like snow on the fields. She passed by without a glance, And my heart sank, as if into hell. Her dress flowed like a river in the distance, And in her hair\u2014ribbons, like stars in the night. And I was left alone, in this sad land, With a longing for her bright, tender speech.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nA snowstorm is sweeping...<\/h2>\n
\nA snowstorm sweeps in, like a white-white carpet, And the blizzard sings like a maiden's song. And I remember the girl in white, The one who caused a crack in my soul. A crack of the heart, of longing, and silent silence, The one who left without a trace. And in her white dress, like in a fairy tale, there is radiance, But in my heart - only cold and bitter misfortune.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nIn the evening fog\u2026<\/h2>\n
\nIn the evening mist, as in a gray haze, I saw her, a girl in white, alone. She stood quietly, by her native maple, And a quiet, bright moon lit up in my heart. A moon of hope, love, and sorrow, For the one who left without a word. And in her white dress, as in a fairy tale, the shadows of the trees and the head of the wind played.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nA fog rose over the field\u2026<\/h2>\n
\nA fog rose over the field, silvery and thick, and a girl in white, like a ghost, passed by. She took peace with her, and in my heart only melancholy. Her image is fragile, like ice on a river, and in her eyes there is sadness, and in her smile \u2013 sorrow. She is like a dream, in distant melancholy, which cannot be returned, no matter how sad.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nA quiet backwater\u2026<\/h2>\n
\nA quiet backwater, weeping willows, and a girl in white, by the water's edge. She gazes into the distance with unbearable melancholy, and in my heart there is only pain and toil. Her dress flows like silk in the wind, and in her hair are ribbons like moonlight. She is like an angel, come to us from heaven, but in my heart there is only cold and delirium.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nForgotten garden\u2026<\/h2>\n
\nA forgotten garden, apple trees in bloom, and a girl in white, alone among them. She picks flowers, like in childhood, and in my heart there is only silence. Her image is tender, like a rose petal, and in her eyes there is sadness, and in her smile \u2013 a dream. She is like a ghost, from a bygone era, which remains in my heart forever.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Sergei Yesenin, a poet of "dawning" expanses and a restless soul, had a particularly keen sense of the beauty of femininity. His poems about girls are always<\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-173498","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stihi"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173498","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=173498"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173498\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174455,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173498\/revisions\/174455"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=173498"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=173498"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=173498"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}