Sergey yesenin white birch tree. Sergey Yesenin White birch under my window ...

Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin

White birch under my window ...

Poems

“It's already evening. Dew…"

It's already evening. Dew
Glitters on nettles.
I'm standing by the road
Leaning against the willow.

Great light from the moon
Straight to our roof.
Somewhere the song of a nightingale
In the distance I can hear.

Good and warm
Like the stove in winter.
And the birches stand
Like big candles.

And far beyond the river
It can be seen behind the edge,
The sleepy watchman knocks
With a dead beater.

"Winter sings - hunts ..."

Winter sings - hunts,
Shaggy forest lulls
Stozvon pine forest.
Around with deep longing
Are sailing to a distant land
Grizzly clouds.

And in the yard there is a blizzard
It spreads like a silk carpet,
But it's painfully cold.
Sparrows are playful
Like lonely children
Cuddled by the window.

The little birds are chilled,
Hungry, tired
And they huddle more tightly.
And a blizzard with a furious roar
Knocks on the hanging shutters
And he gets angry more and more.

And the tender birds doze
Beneath these whirlwinds, snowy
By the frozen window.
And they dream of a beautiful one
In the smiles of the sun is clear
Spring beauty.

"Mother went to Kupalnitsa through the woods ..."

Mother went to the Bather in the forest,
Barefoot, with tucks, wandered through the dew.

Herbs were pricking her legs,
The darling cried in pain.

I didn’t seize the liver with seizure,
The nurse gasped, then she gave birth.

I was born with songs in a grass blanket.
The spring dawns twisted me into a rainbow.

I grew up to maturity, the grandson of the Kupala night,
Darkness, magical happiness prophesies to me.

Just not according to conscience, happiness is at the ready,
I choose both eyes and eyebrows with vigor.

Like a white snowflake, I melt into blue
Yes, to the fate of the homeless woman I cover up my trail.

"Pours bird cherry snow ..."

Pours bird cherry with snow,
Greenery in bloom and dew.
In the field, leaning towards the shoots,
Rooks walk in the strip.

The silk grasses will drop
Smells like resinous pine.
Oh you, meadows and oak forests, -
I'm dizzy in the spring.

Rainbow secret news
They shine into my soul.
I think about the bride
I only sing about her.

You rash, bird cherry, with snow,
Sing you birds in the forest.
Run across the field
I will blow the color with foam.

White birch
Under my window
Covered with snow
Like silver.

On fluffy branches
With a snowy border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In the sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In a golden fire.

And the dawn, lazily
Walking around
Sprinkles branches
New silver.

Grandma's Tales

On a winter evening in the backyard
A swaggering crowd
On the snowdrifts, on the hills
We're going, wandering home.
Will disgust the sled,
And we sit in two rows
Listen to grandma's tales
About Ivan the Fool.
And we are sitting, barely breathing.
Time goes by midnight.
Let's pretend we don't hear
If mom calls you to sleep.
All fairy tales. It's time to go to bed ...
But how can we sleep now?
And again we started crying,
We begin to pester.
Grandma will say timidly:
"Why sit until dawn?"
Well, what does it matter to us -
Speak and speak.

‹1913–1915›

They passed the kaliki villages,
We drank kvass under the windows,
By the churches before the cloisters of the ancients
They worshiped the most pure Savior.

Wanderers made their way across the field,
They sang a verse about the sweetest Jesus.
They stomped past the nags with their luggage,
The loud geese sang along.

The wretched hobbled around the flock,
They spoke painful speeches:
“We all serve the Lord alone,
Laying the chains on the shoulders. "

They took out the kaliki hastily
Crumbs saved for cows.
And the shepherdesses shouted mockingly:
“Girls, dance! The buffoons are coming! "

I'm going. Quiet. Ringing is heard
Under the hoof in the snow.
Hooded crows only
They made some noise in the meadow.

Bewitched by invisibility
The forest slumbers under the fairy tale of sleep.
Like a white kerchief
A pine tree is tied.

I bent down like an old woman
Leaned on a stick
And under the very top
A woodpecker pounds on a bitch.

A horse gallops, there is a lot of space.
The snow is falling and the shawl is laying.
Endless road
Runs off into the distance like a ribbon.

‹1914›

"The dormant bell ..."

Dozing bell
Woke up the fields
Smiled at the sun
Sleepy land.

The blows came
To blue skies
It rings loudly
Voice through the woods.

Hid behind the river
White moon,
She ran loudly
Frisky wave.

Quiet valley
Drives away sleep
Somewhere beyond the road
The ringing stops.

‹1914›

“Beloved land! The heart is dreaming ... "

Beloved land! The heart is dreaming
Skirts of the sun in the waters of the pubic.
I would like to get lost
In the greens of your hundred-bells.

Along the boundary, on the line,
Reseda and porridge robe.
And they call the rosary
Willows are gentle nuns.

A swamp smokes like a cloud
Burn in the heavenly yoke.
With a quiet secret for someone
I harbored thoughts in my heart.

I meet everything, I accept everything,
Glad and happy to take out the soul.
I came to this land
To leave her as soon as possible.

"The Lord went to torture people in love ..."

The Lord walked to torture people in love,
He went out to be a beggar on a kulizh.
Old grandfather on a dry stump, in Dubrov,
He rubbed the stale crumpet with his gums.

The grandfather saw the beggar dear,
On the path, with an iron club,
And I thought: "See, how wretched, -
Know that hunger swings, sickly. "

The Lord came up, hiding sorrow and anguish:
Apparently, they say, you can't wake up their hearts ...
And the old man said, stretching out his hand:
"On, chew ... you will be a little stronger."

"Goy you, Russia, my dear ..."

Goy you, Russia, my dear,
Huts - in the vestments of the image ...
There is no end and no end to be seen -
Only the blue sucks the eyes.

Like a visiting pilgrim,
I watch your fields.
And at the low outskirts
The poplars are ringingly withering away.

Smells like apple and honey
Through the churches, your meek Savior.
And hums behind the korogod
There is a merry dance in the meadows.

I'll run along a crumpled stitch
To the freedom of green lech,
Meet me like earrings
Girlish laughter will ring.

If the saint's host cries out:
"Throw you Rus, live in paradise!"
I will say: “There is no need for paradise,
Give me my homeland. "

Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin

White birch
Under my window
Covered with snow
Like silver.

On fluffy branches
With a snowy border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In the sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In a golden fire.

And the dawn, lazily
Walking around
sprinkles branches
New silver.

It is not for nothing that the poet Sergei Yesenin is called the singer of Russia, since in his work the image of the homeland is key. Even in those works that describe the mysterious eastern countries, the author constantly draws a parallel between the overseas beauties and the quiet, silent beauty of his native spaces.

The poem "Birch" was written by Sergei Yesenin in 1913, when the poet was barely 18 years old.

Sergei Yesenin, 18 years old, 1913

At this time, he already lived in Moscow, which impressed him with its scale and unimaginable fuss. However, in his work, the poet remained faithful to his native village of Konstantinovo and, devoting a poem to an ordinary birch, as if mentally returning home, to an old rickety hut.

House where Sergei A. Yesenin was born. Konstantinovo

It would seem that you can tell about an ordinary tree that grows under your window? However, it is with the birch that Sergei Yesenin has the most vivid and exciting childhood memories. Observing how it changes throughout the year, then shedding withered foliage, then dressing in a new green outfit, the poet became convinced that it was birch that was an integral symbol of Russia, worthy of being immortalized in poetry.

The image of a birch in the poem of the same name, which is filled with light sadness and tenderness, is written out with special grace and skill. Her winter outfit, woven of fluffy snow, the author compares with silver, which burns and shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow in the morning dawn. The epithets that Sergei Yesenin awards birch are amazing in their beauty and sophistication. Its branches remind him of the brushes of a snowy fringe, and the "sleepy silence" enveloping a tree covered with snow gives it a special appearance, beauty and grandeur.

Why did Sergei Yesenin choose the image of a birch for his poem? There are several answers to this question. Some researchers of his life and work are convinced that the poet was a pagan at heart, and for him the birch was a symbol of spiritual purity and rebirth.

Sergei Yesenin by the birch. Photo - 1918

Therefore, in one of the most difficult periods of his life, cut off from his native village, where for Yesenin everything was close, simple and understandable, the poet is looking for a fulcrum in his memories, imagining what his favorite looks like now, covered with a snow blanket. In addition, the author draws a subtle parallel, endowing the birch with the features of a young woman who is not alien to coquetry and love for exquisite outfits. This is not surprising either, since in Russian folklore, birch, like willow, has always been considered a "female" tree. However, if people have always associated willow with grief and suffering, for which it got its name "weeping", then birch is a symbol of joy, harmony and consolation. Knowing Russian folklore perfectly well, Sergei Yesenin remembered the folk parables that if you go up to a birch tree and tell her about your experiences, your soul will certainly become lighter and warmer. Thus, in an ordinary birch, several images were combined at once - the Motherland, the girl, the mother - which are close and understandable to any Russian person. Therefore, it is not surprising that the simple and unpretentious poem "Birch", in which Yesenin's talent is not yet fully manifested, evokes a wide variety of feelings, from admiration to slight sadness and melancholy. After all, each reader has his own image of a birch, and it is to him that he "tries on" the lines of this poem, exciting and light, like silvery snowflakes.

However, the author's memories of his native village cause melancholy, as he realizes that he will not return to Konstantinovo soon. Therefore, the poem "Birch" can rightfully be considered a kind of farewell not only to his home, but also to childhood, not particularly joyful and happy, but, nevertheless, is one of the best periods of his life for the poet.