A Translation From the Russian:

Don't pity, don't call, don't cry

I regret nothing, seek neither help nor tears.
All is gone, like blossoms from the apple tree,
Lost, seized by autumn’s tarnished flares.
No, I would not be young again, not me.
 
A heart once touched by winter’s chill
Could never beat the same.
No matter that land’s false appeal
I would not walk that ground again.

Shade of youth, so rare, so bold, 
No longer can you conjure brimming eyes;
The magic’s gone and grieved by winds so cold,  
I cannot spare those floods of storm and fire.

My heart’s greed begets remorse;
My life? Perhaps it’s all a dream
As unlikely as a pale pink horse
Viewed on a morning in the spring.

We all are vessels of our own mortality
Verdant maple leaves are gilded; let them fly,
Their beauty’s blessed throughout eternity
Yet they live but to blossom and to die.
                                   
                                    --by Sergei Yesenin, 1895-1925
                                    --Translated from the Russian by John R. Guthrie
                                    --with appreciation to Natasha Kalinitcheva Guthrie