I have left my endeared home,
Getting out of my Russia of blue.
Little grove by the pond will warm
My old mother's sorrow anew.
Like a golden croaker the moon
Lies prostrate on the water tranquil.
Grizzly hair, like apple-tree bloom,
In my father's beard will spill.
I will not come back readily, and
Singing blizzard will ring on and on.
Maples guard my blue Russian land,
Standing there, one-legged, all alone.
And I know that it's joyous for those
Who've been kissing the rain of the leaves.
For the maple and I, we both
Are alike, in the head, that is.