The tragedy of the Russian village in the lyrics of S. Yesenin. Research work on literature on the topic “the image of a tree in the lyrics of Sergei Yesenin” Need help studying any topic

Sergei Aleksandrovich Yesenin is called a “peasant” poet. He considered himself “the last poet of the village.” Indeed, his poems about rural freedom and the delights of his native open spaces are filled with special beauty and melodiousness. The lyricism and tenderness of Yesenin’s lines penetrate the soul, amaze with their fullness of light, air, sound, and fascinate with their fabulousness. The mountain ash turned red, the water turned blue. The month, the sad rider, dropped the reins. Again darkness floated out of the grove like a blue swan. He brought miraculous relics on his wings. Only someone in love with life can see such sincere and heartfelt lines, reaching to the depths of consciousness, touching to tears, to heartache. The poet loved Russia as it was, without embellishing or belittling its merits.

Filial love emanates from his works. The distance became foggy. The lunar crest scratches the clouds. Red evening behind the kukan Spread out a curly nonsense. Under the window from the slippery willows the quail sounds of the wind. Quiet twilight, a warm angel, Filled with unearthly light. But a poet cannot exist forever in a quiet, closed world, no matter how sweet and attractive he may be. Life beckons him, and Yesenin leaves for the city, distant and mysterious in his imagination young man. Keeping the covenant of native beliefs - To have a bashful fear of sin. I wandered in a stone cave, Like a tempted monk. People swarmed like ants from the cracks of hollowed out blocks, And, slithering, their breasts moved, Like the scales of gnarled fish. And I heard a voice from God: “Forget what you saw and run!” (“City”) Now the city crushes the poet with its bulk, lack of space, fussiness and insincerity of those around him. Hopeless melancholy begins to sound in Yesenin's poems. In an artificially created world, one has to seek solace in drunkenness and revelry, spontaneously protesting and not yet understanding what the soul wants. And when the moon shines at night, When it shines... God knows how! I walk, head hanging down, down a side street to a familiar tavern. My heart beats faster and faster, And I say out of place: “I’m just like you, lost, I can’t go back now.” Yesenin sees a city shackled in concrete, like a free man wrapped in a straitjacket. Gradually, bright colors disappear from the poet’s lyrics - gold is replaced by gray, the scarlet color of dawn is replaced by lemon yellow. Not only colors fade, but also feelings. The author is trying to find harmony here too, to reconcile the incompatible. The poet's gift is to caress and scribble, a fatal stamp on him. I wanted to marry a white rose with a black toad on earth. Let them not succeed, let these thoughts not come true pink days, But since devils nested in the soul - That means angels lived in it. But nothing brings comfort to the poet except his native vast expanses, which heal the tormented soul and give peace and joy. revives Yesenin to nature, gives strength to live and create. The poet clearly sees that it is impossible to stop progress; it inevitably attacks patriarchy, which is dear to the heart.

Even in the poem “Sorokoust” there is a picture that amazes readers with its truthful imagery. Have you seen how it runs through the steppes, hiding in the lake mists, snoring with an iron nostril, and a cast-iron train on its paws? And behind him, through the big grass. How does a red-maned foal gallop at a festival of desperate racing, Throwing its thin legs to its head? dear, funny fool, where is he, where is he going? Doesn’t he really know that steel cavalry defeated living horses? Indeed, she did not overtake, but “won,” but somehow it is bitter | and sad from this victory, the triumph of iron and roar over the “blue that fell into the river,” the “loose rust” of the hills, the “milky smoke of the village.” The poet has only one destiny left - “like a psalm-reader, to sing // Hallelujah over his native country.” And yet, historically, Russia has been given only one way to solve [the peasant question—the way to renew the village. Accepting these changes with his mind, Yesenin at the same time felt that overcoming his rural Rus' would not be as easy and quick as it seemed to the poet’s contemporaries. Hence Sergei Alexandrovich’s constant anxious, sometimes painful thoughts about (the future of the peasant country. Field! It’s enough to drag the plow across the fields! It hurts to see your poverty And the birches and poplars. I don’t know what will happen to me... Maybe in new life I’m not fit, But still I want to see poor, beggarly Rus' with steel. Here, the truth of feelings is especially dear to us, this is the true greatness of the poet. Having realized the need for renewal, Yesenin looks more closely at the boiling of life, striving, in his words, “to comprehend in every moment the uplifted Rus as a commune.” Until recently, the poet “cursed” the city, seeing it contains only the root cause of all the suffering and misfortunes of peasant Russia, he wrote with alarm that “ stone hands"city-highway - "they crushed the village by the neck." Now all these alarming and tragic [thoughts and thoughts are in the past. Friends! Friends! What a split in the country, What sadness in the joyful boiling! You know, that’s why I want so much, with my pants pulled up, to run after the Komsomol.

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The work of the original Russian poet Sergei Yesenin goes back to the Russian village with all its colorful charms and tragic fate. The poet grew up in the village and knew its troubles and problems deeply, feeling them in his personal destiny, taking them to heart.

In all his works dedicated to the countryside, and there are quite a few of them in the poet’s work, S. Yesenin emphasizes the indissoluble connection between peasant life and nature and admires poetic pictures of rural landscapes. And not only the peasant hut, but also the monastery and the old church, the poet skillfully and organically fits into the endless landscape, unique in its fabulous beauty. native land.

It is noteworthy that Yesenin appreciates not only the aesthetic side of village life, but also the internal expediency of the entire peasant way of life. Detailed description We find peasant life in the poem “In the Hut”: stove, groove, grip, flap, plow, clamps, canopy.

The main decoration of any home is an efficient housewife. It is thanks to her that the house is so nice and cozy. I can’t help but remember the Russian proverb: “It’s not the housewife who speaks, but the one who cooks cabbage soup.”

The use of dialect words in the poem gives the work a special flavor: dracheny - pancakes flavored with eggs, milk and butter, dezhka - tub. There was a place in the house for pets and birds (cats, puppies, chickens).
The Yeseninskaya hut is rustic, simple, but cozy; you can feel that it is inhabited by hardworking people who are accustomed to earning their own bread.

Over time, S. Yesenin, who so joyfully greeted the revolution as a symbol of the final peasant liberation from the oppression of the landowner, began to think about what the transformations actually gave to the people. The whirlpool of social changes frightens the poet. In the poem “Departing Rus',” revealing his philosophy of life, the poet clearly states:

I'm not a new person!
What to hide?
I have one foot left in the past,
Trying to catch up with the steel army,
I slide and fall differently.

He further writes that he expected greater improvement in the lives of men. The common people rejoice at little things: if only they had chintz and nails, they would grow their own bread and potatoes. This poem contains a mood of sadness and dissatisfaction. Behind the outward agreement to “lift up your pants and run after the Komsomol” there is obvious irony. It was instantly felt in official circles. That is why in the thirties S. Yesenin would be banned for a long time. His books will be removed from libraries, and negative reviews will appear in criticism.

The people’s dissatisfaction with the new order is also evident in Yesenin’s poem “Letter to Grandfather,” where the grandson convinces his grandfather to come to terms with the changes:

You say:
What was stolen from you
That I'm a fool
And the city is a rogue and a spendthrift.
But only, grandfather,
Hardly so, hardly, -
bad horse
The thief will not take you away.

The city in this work personifies not only a different way of life, but also state power and official policy.

The city is also opposed to the village as a symbol technical progress. Yesenin’s favorite images of a horse and a steam locomotive emerge in the poem. Grandfather rejects new car, refuses to board the carriage. The grandson is already thinking bigger: he understands that you can’t go far on an old horse. However, the duality of the author’s position still remains obvious: S. Yesenin, understanding and realizing everything, painfully clings to the old and painfully familiar to him
the world of the patriarchal village with its stable way of life, which has been rooted in Rus' for centuries.

In an everyday way, the peasant question, painful for S. Yesenin, is specifically raised in the poem “Letter from Mother.”

Now it's all sadness
We live as if in darkness.
We don't have a horse.
But if you were in the house,
That would be all
And in your mind -
Chairman's post
In the volost executive committee.
Then I would live more boldly,
No one would pull us...

As we see, the peasant lot remains painful. Before the revolution, the family of S. Yesenin’s grandfather was considered quite prosperous. The nationalization of property and collective farm construction were indeed perceived as a real robbery.

The conversation about the village takes on the most tragic sound in the poem “The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain...” Yesenin’s cry sounds piercingly loudly in it:

Give me in my beloved homeland,
Loving everything, die in peace!

Here there is frank dissatisfaction with the “new”, and immense fatigue, the desire to isolate oneself from problems and remain living in one’s familiar world of rural nature and spiritual harmony.

The cluster of contradictions and clashes in the village of the Yesenin era is associated primarily with the issue of land. The poet saw with his own eyes not only satisfied peasants who received free land, but also people who lost lands and estates, were expelled from their native land and tragically experienced this expulsion. S. Yesenin understood that such a redistribution was paid for in blood. These events were reflected in the poem “Anna Snegina,” which, with the documentary thoroughness of a historical sketch, showed them through the eyes of a person from the people’s environment, through the eyes of a hero who grew up in the village and knew her from childhood.

Fairly believing that the authorities would deceive them as always, the peasants did not see any particular personal benefit or interest in such transformations. Without fully understanding the order of the new life, they were afraid of any changes. All this was expressed in Yesenin’s lyrics in abstract metaphorical images of the “iron guest” (“I am the last poet of the village”), “stone hands of the highway” (“The world is mysterious, my ancient world”), In “Return to the Homeland” the grandfather complains that that the cross was removed from the church and there was nowhere to pray. Yes, myself lyrical hero does not understand many changes.

My poetry is no longer needed here,
And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here,

states the poet in the poem “Soviet Rus'”. In the poem “I am the last poet of the village,” he identifies his own death with the death of the old way of life, feeling his poems and songs unnecessary, outdated, understanding the inevitability of change.

My Rus', wooden Rus'!
I am your only singer and herald,

exclaims Yesenin in the poem “Hooligan”.

However, by 1925 the poet’s mood changed somewhat. Perhaps this was due to trips abroad, in which Yesenin saw how hopelessly his beloved Russia was technically behind Europe and America. In the poem “Uncomfortable Liquid Moon” an ambivalent attitude appears: while continuing to love his homeland, the poet at the same time curses its agricultural and industrial backwardness:

I like something different now.
And in the consumptive light of the moon
Through stone and steel
I see the power of my native side.

He couldn’t and didn’t want to highlight the contradictions in his views, but he couldn’t and didn’t want to hush them up. The poem opens with a picture of peacefully sleeping nature:

The feather grass is sleeping. Plain dear,
And the leaden heaviness of wormwood.

These lines reveal the subtle aesthetic nature of the author, his ability to discern beauty in the ordinary, and to poetically embody this beauty in a verbal sketch.

The poem “The Feather Grass Sleeps” contrasts the light of the moon (as a symbol of the traditionalist principle) and New World(symbol of a new era). Feather grass is a typical image of the expansive steppe landscape. The bitter steppe grass wormwood is an image that evokes melancholy. Cranes symbolize separation. The epithet “golden” in relation to the hut emphasizes the importance of the village way of life for the poet. “Lead” in the expression “lead freshness of wormwood,” on the contrary, appears in this poem only as a color epithet, since fresh lead after melting has a brilliant silvery tint.

In the second stanza of the work, the typical features of the Russian national character were clearly manifested: firstly, the painful search for the meaning of existence, and secondly, wherever a Russian person is, his soul always yearns to go home:

Know that we all have such a fate,
And, perhaps, ask everyone -
Rejoicing, raging and suffering,
Is life good in Rus'?

With deep sincerity, the lyrical hero reflects on life in which every person must occupy the place destined by fate. For the Russian peasant, such a place was originally the hut - the embodiment of the traditional measured way of life, focused on harmony with nature and the folk calendar.

The bright, memorable line “I still remained the poet of the golden log hut” emphasizes the theme of the confrontation between city and countryside in the works of S. Yesenin.

“I am the last poet of the village,” writes S. Yesenin in the poem of the same name. And in this categorical statement there is a deep awareness of the importance of one’s social mission as a kind of duty to fellow countrymen. The patriarchal village of Yesenin’s childhood is contrasted with the confident and inevitable steps of soulless technological progress:

On the blue field path
The Iron Guest will be out soon.

In the work “The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain...” S. Yesenin directly states that progress carries with it a destructive beginning:

At night, huddled against the headboard,
I see him as a strong enemy
How someone else's youth splashes with newness
To my glades and meadows.

S. Yesenin had the opportunity to leave Russia, get rid of all problems and live a prosperous and carefree life abroad. But he chose to die, because he could not live away from his forests and fields, from beautiful Russian birch trees and from everything that is called homeland.

The process of village extinction, which began at the end of the last century, continues with even greater force. Settlements located near cities have turned into holiday villages, and remote, remote villages are simply dying out and empty. The original support and breadbasket of Russia is disappearing. If this process does not stop, then very soon our country will have to buy other people's bread abroad for gold.

Essay text:

Still, I remained the lyricist of the Golden Log Hut.
S. Yesenin
Peasant, rural Rus' has always been close to the heart of the wonderful Russian poet S. Yesenin, who spent his childhood in the village, with his grandfather, among the expanses of fields and meadows and simple peasant life. It was there that his literary talent awoke, filled with freshness. blooming gardens and the colors of sunsets, fresh cow's milk and the evening dog barking.
O land of menacing floods, And quiet spring forces, Here, by the dawn and stars, I went to school.
Yesenin’s poems are close in spirit to folk poetry: they are melodious and melodic, sincere and figurative, and this gives them some special intimacy and uniqueness. Yesenin was always the son of his homeland and his people, despite the fact that fate carried him to different cities, he also visited abroad. But most often, in isolation from his native expanses, from nature, the village, which he considered the source of “living” life, the author felt melancholy and spiritual discomfort.
Sleep feather grass. The plain is dear, And the leaden freshness of the wormwood. No other homeland will pour my warmth into my chest.
And yet, although Yesenin considered himself a “peasant son,” he was not a peasant, but a lyricist, whose manic, full-flowing life, everything is new. Therefore, once in the city, Yesenin remained there, although quite often he felt uncomfortable among the gray boxes of houses, noisy streets, self-absorbed people who were indifferent to everything else.
Keeping the covenant of my native beliefs, nourishing a bashful fear of sin, I wandered in a stone cave, Like a tempted monk. People swarmed like ants from the cracks of hollowed out blocks, and their breasts slid and moved, like the scales of gnarled fish.
With hope and hidden joy S. Yesenin awaited the coming of the revolution. He believed that the revolution would bring changes not only for the city, but also for the village, giving it new opportunities, making the difficult life of a peasant easier.
I accept everything.
I take everything as is.
Ready to follow the beaten tracks.
I will give my whole soul to October and May,
But I won’t give the lyre to my dear one.
However, the poet's dreams were not destined to come true. The revolution brought even greater poverty, misfortune, and grief to the village. The city went on the offensive against the patriarchal province, and Yesenin, with pain in his heart, felt like the “last lyricist of a village” that was dying. The poet’s poems dedicated to the passing of Rus' are full of melancholy and sadness.
The world is mysterious, my ancient world, You, like the wind, calmed down and sat down. The village was squeezed by the neck by the stone hands of the highway.
It seems to Yesenin that a gray concrete city with its industry is capable of destroying “living” beauty, killing life, planting the iron, artificial, and dead. In Yesenin’s poems, the city is scary and animated, it looks like a huge greedy octopus that cannot be fed. The “scarlet color of dawn” is replaced by the crimson fire of blast furnaces, the “milk smoke of the village” by the black smog of factory chimneys, the snoring of horses and the clatter of hooves by the roar of the railway.
Have you seen
How I run across the steppes,
Hiding in the lake mists,
Snoring with an iron nostril,
Is there a cast iron train on its feet?
And behind him
Through the big grass
Like at a festival of desperate racing,
Throwing thin legs to the head,
Red-maned colt galloping?
Dear, dear, funny fool, Well, where is he, where is he going? Doesn't he really know that the steel cavalry defeated the living horses?
Trips abroad changed Yesenin’s opinion about progress, industry, and civilization. He felt pain for his rural, “hut”, poor and wretched Rus', which, undoubtedly, kept a strong connection with the past, but which could not have a worthy future.
I have become indifferent to the shacks, and the hearth fire is not dear to me. I even stopped loving the spring blizzard of apple trees because of the poverty of the fields.
Has Yesenin reconciled with the city? Probably not completely, since he was never either a singer of “machine civilization” or an urbanist. The poet was able to see the future power of his “native side” “through stone and steel,” but he doubted whether he would have a place in this cruel artificial world.
I don’t know what will happen to me... Maybe I’m not fit for a new life, But still I want to see poor, beggarly Rus' with steel.

The rights to the essay "Village and City ("Living" and "Iron") in the Poetry of S. Yesenin" belong to its author. When quoting material, it is necessary to indicate a hyperlink to

Composition

I am a citizen of the village... S. Yesenin Sergei Aleksandrovich Yesenin is called a “peasant” poet. He considered himself “the last poet of the village.” Indeed, his poems about rural freedom and the delights of his native open spaces are filled with special beauty and melodiousness. The lyricism and tenderness of Yesenin’s lines penetrate the soul, amaze with their fullness of light, air, sound, and fascinate with their fabulousness. The mountain ash turned red, the water turned blue. The month, the sad rider, dropped the reins. Again darkness floated out of the grove like a blue swan. He brought miraculous relics on his wings. Only someone in love with life can see such sincere and heartfelt lines, reaching to the depths of consciousness, touching to tears, to heartache. The poet loved Russia as it was, without embellishing or belittling its merits. Filial love emanates from his works. The distance became foggy. The lunar crest scratches the clouds. Red evening behind the kukan Spread out a curly nonsense. Under the window from the slippery willows the quail sounds of the wind. Quiet twilight, a warm angel, Filled with unearthly light. But a poet cannot exist forever in a quiet, closed world, no matter how sweet and attractive he may be. Life beckons him, and Yesenin leaves for the city, distant and mysterious in the young man’s imagination. Keeping the covenant of native beliefs - To have a bashful fear of sin. I wandered in a stone cave, Like a tempted monk. People swarmed like ants from the cracks of hollowed out blocks, And, slithering, their breasts moved, Like the scales of gnarled fish. And I heard a voice from God: “Forget what you saw and run!” (“City”) Now the city crushes the poet with its bulk, lack of space, fussiness and insincerity of those around him. Hopeless melancholy begins to sound in Yesenin's poems. In an artificially created world, one has to seek solace in drunkenness and revelry, spontaneously protesting and not yet understanding what the soul wants. And when the moon shines at night, When it shines... God knows how! I walk, head hanging down, down a side street to a familiar tavern. My heart beats faster and faster, And I say out of place: “I’m just like you, lost, I can’t go back now.” Yesenin sees a city shackled in concrete, like a free man wrapped in a straitjacket. Gradually, bright colors disappear from the poet’s lyrics - gold is replaced by gray, the scarlet color of dawn is replaced by lemon yellow. Not only colors fade, but also feelings. The author is trying to find harmony here too, to reconcile the incompatible. The poet's gift is to caress and scribble, a fatal stamp on him. I wanted to marry a white rose with a black toad on earth. Even if these thoughts of rosy days did not come true, even if these thoughts did not come true, But since devils nested in the soul, It means that angels lived in it. But nothing brings comfort to the poet except his native vast expanses, which heal the tormented soul and give peace and joy. Love for nature revives Yesenin, gives him strength to live and create. The poet clearly sees that it is impossible to stop progress; it inevitably attacks patriarchy, which is dear to the heart. Even in the poem “Sorokoust” there is a picture that amazes readers with its truthful imagery. Have you seen how it runs through the steppes, hiding in the lake mists, snoring with an iron nostril, and a cast-iron train on its paws? And behind him, through the big grass. How does a red-maned foal gallop at a festival of desperate racing, Throwing its thin legs to its head? dear, funny fool, where is he, where is he going? Doesn’t he really know that steel cavalry defeated living horses? Indeed, she did not overtake, but “won,” but somehow it is bitter | and sad from this victory, the triumph of iron and roar over the “blue that fell into the river,” the “loose rust” of the hills, the “milky smoke of the village.” The poet has only one destiny left - “like a psalm-reader, to sing // Hallelujah over his native country.” And yet, historically, Russia has been given only one way to solve [the peasant question—the way to renew the village. Accepting these changes with his mind, Yesenin at the same time felt that overcoming his rural Rus' would not be as easy and quick as it seemed to the poet’s contemporaries. Hence the constant anxious, sometimes painful thoughts of Sergei Alexandrovich about (the future of the peasant country. Field Russia! Enough of dragging the plow through the fields! It hurts to see your poverty And the birches and poplars. I don’t know what will happen to me... Maybe not in a new life I'm fit, But still I want to see with steel the poor, beggarly Russia. Here the truth of feelings is especially dear to us, this is the true (greatness of the poet. Having realized the need for renewal, Yesenin looks more closely at the boiling of life, striving, in his words, “to comprehend in every moment commune-raised Russia." Not long ago, the poet "cursed" the city, seeing in it only the root cause of all the suffering and misfortunes of peasant Russia, and wrote with alarm that the "stone hands" of the city-highway "have crushed the village by the neck." All these alarming and tragic [thoughts and thoughts are in the past. Friends! Friends! What a split in the country, What sadness in the joyful ebullience! You know, that’s why I so want, With my pants up, to run after the Komsomol.

New arrivals of T-shirts! This spring you will

I still remain a poet

Golden log hut.

S. Yesenin

Peasant, rural Rus' has always been close to the heart of the wonderful Russian poet S. Yesenin, who spent his childhood in the village, with his grandfather - among the expanses of fields and meadows and simple peasant life. It was there that his literary talent awoke, infused with the freshness of flowering gardens and the colors of sunsets, fresh cow's milk and the evening dog barking.

O land of menacing floods, And quiet spring forces, Here, at dawn and stars, I went to school.

Yesenin's poems are close in spirit to folk poetry: they are melodious and melodic, sincere and figurative, and this gives them some special intimacy and uniqueness. Yesenin was always the son of his homeland and his people, despite the fact that fate carried him to different cities, he also visited abroad. But most often, in isolation from his native expanses, from nature, the village, which he considered the source of “living” life, the poet felt melancholy and spiritual discomfort.

The feather grass is sleeping. The plain is dear, And the leaden freshness of the wormwood. No other homeland will pour my warmth into my chest.

And yet, although Yesenin considered himself a “peasant’s son,” he was not a peasant, but a poet who was attracted by a stormy, full-flowing life, everything new. Therefore, once in the city, Yesenin stayed there, although quite often he felt uncomfortable among the gray boxes of houses, noisy streets, self-absorbed people who were indifferent to everything else.

Keeping the covenant of my native beliefs - To have a bashful fear of sin, I wandered in a stone cave, Like a tempted monk. People swarmed like ants From the cracks of hollowed out blocks, And, huddling, their breasts moved, Like the scales of gnarled fish.

With hope and hidden joy S. Yesenin awaited the coming of the revolution. He believed that the revolution would bring changes not only for the city, but also for the village - it would give it new opportunities and make the difficult life of peasants easier.

I accept everything. I accept everything as is. I am ready to follow the beaten tracks. I will give my whole soul to October and May, But I will not give up my dear lyre.

However, the poet's dreams were not destined to come true. The revolution brought even greater poverty, misfortune, and grief to the village. The city went on the offensive against the patriarchal province, and Yesenin, with pain in his heart, felt like “the last poet of a village” that was dying. The poet’s poems dedicated to the passing of Rus' are full of melancholy and sadness.

The world is mysterious, my ancient world, You, like the wind, calmed down and sat down. So they squeezed the village by the neck The stone hands of the highway.

It seems to Yesenin that a gray concrete city with its industry is capable of destroying “living” beauty, killing life, planting the iron, artificial, and dead. In Yesenin’s poems, the city is scary and animated, it looks like a huge greedy octopus that cannot be fed. The “scarlet color of dawn” is replaced by the crimson fire of blast furnaces, the “milky smoke of the village” by the black smog of factory chimneys, the snoring of horses and the clatter of hooves by the roar of the railway.

Have you seen how it runs through the steppes, hiding in the lake mists, snoring with an iron nostril, and a cast-iron train on its paws? And behind him, through the large grass, like at a festival of desperate racing, throwing his thin legs to his head, gallops a red-maned foal?

Dear, dear, funny fool, Well, where is he, where is he going? Doesn’t he really know that the steel cavalry defeated the living horses?

Trips abroad changed Yesenin’s opinion about progress, industry, and civilization. He felt pain for his rural, “hut”, poor and wretched Rus', which, undoubtedly, kept a strong connection with the past, but which could not have a worthy future.

I became indifferent to the shacks, And the hearth fire is not dear to me. Even the apple trees and the spring blizzard I stopped loving because of the poverty of the fields.

Has Yesenin reconciled with the city? Probably not completely, since he was never either a singer of “machine civilization” or an urbanist. The poet was able to see the future power of his “native side” “through stone and steel,” but he doubted whether he would have a place in this cruel artificial world.

I don’t know what will happen to me... Maybe I’m not fit for a new life, But still I want to see poor, beggarly Rus' with steel.