Есенин

Do not look at me with reproach,
I harbor no scorn for you, it’s true,
But I love your eyes’ veiled approach
And that sly, gentle meekness in you.
​Yes, you seem to be prostrate, defeated,
And I’m almost glad to witness the play:
Like a fox, in death’s pose retreated,
Waiting to snatch a young crow as its prey.
​Well, go on then, hunt—I won’t quiver.
But take care that your fire doesn’t die;
Against my soul’s icy shiver,
Many like you have broken their try.
​It is not you I love, my dear,
You are only an echo, a ghost.
In your face, another’s features appear,
The one whose blue eyes haunt me the most.
​Though she may not seem mild or tender,
And her gaze may be cold as the sea,
With a stride full of majestic splendor,
She stirred the very depths of me.
​One like her? You could never deceive her,
You would follow, though you'd rather stay.
But you... you’re a shallow receiver,
Your sweet lies cannot find their way.
​And yet, though I view you with slighting,
I’ll confess this, for all time and span:
If Heaven and Hell weren't in writing,
They’d be dreamt up and fashioned by man.