A golden grove

The golden grove has sung a ballad,
The voice of joy beneath the skies.
The sisters-birches have too carolled
Whatever be… do not repine…

The hues of autumn still abundant,
The rowan tree seems fire as of red;
So one cannot but glorify this lushness!
The grasses sharply yellow are amid.

I am alone in front of trees. The middle standing,
I won’t be regretting at the past.
For birds are rovers, winds are drifting airs…
I won’t be attracted or attached.

Here everything is shifted, all in movement.
And everyone is free to come and go.
The years blown were lived along with lyrics…
The groves were melodies of songs.

If once you feel the gentle fans of mistrals,
This gesture of the unforgiving time,
The words are null but, standing in the middle,
You’ll see the groves are losing their style…
Вольный перевод ст. С. Есенина «Отговорила роща золотая». Есть и получше переводы, конечно