Lonely birch tree under my window. White birch
White birch
Below my window
Covered with snow
Exactly silver.
On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.
And the birch tree stands
In sleepy silence,
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire.
And the dawn is lazy
Walking around
sprinkles branches
New silver.
Analysis of the poem “Birch” by Yesenin
The poem “Birch” is one of the best examples of Yesenin’s landscape lyrics. He wrote it in 1913 at the age of 17. The young poet was just beginning his creative path. This work showed what strengths and possibilities a modest village boy conceals within himself.
At first glance, “Birch” is a very simple poem. But he expresses a great love for his country and nature. Many people remember the lines of the poem from school. It helps to cultivate a feeling of love for one’s land through the image of a simple tree.
Yesenin was not awarded the title of “folk singer” for nothing. In his works, throughout his life he continued to glorify the beauty of rural Russia. Birch is one of the central symbols of Russian nature, an invariable component of the landscape. For Yesenin, who had already become familiar with metropolitan life and had seen enough of it, the birch tree was also a symbol of his home. His soul was always drawn to his homeland, to the village of Konstantinovo.
Yesenin had an innate sense of an inextricable connection with nature. Animals and plants in his works are always endowed with human traits. In the poem “Birch” there are still no direct parallels between a tree and a person, but the love with which the birch is described creates the feeling of a female image. Birch is involuntarily associated with a young beautiful girl in a light, airy outfit (“covered with snow”). “Silver”, “white fringe”, “golden fire” are bright epithets and at the same time metaphors that characterize this outfit.
The poem reveals another facet of Yesenin’s early work. His pure and bright lyrics always contain an element of magic. Landscape sketches are like a wonderful fairy tale. Before us appears the image of a sleeping beauty, standing “in sleepy silence” in magnificent decoration. Using the technique of personification, Yesenin introduces a second character - the dawn. She, “walking around”, adds new details to the birch tree’s outfit. The plot of the fairy tale is ready. The imagination, especially a child’s, can further develop a whole magical story.
The fabulousness of the poem brings it closer to oral folk art. Young Yesenin often used folklore motifs in his works. The poetic comparison of a birch tree with a girl was used in ancient Russian epics.
The verse is written in alternating “idle” rhyme, the meter is trochaic trimeter.
“Birch” is a very beautiful lyrical poem that leaves only bright, cheerful feelings in the soul.
At the time of writing the poem “White Birch,” Sergei Yesenin was only 18 years old, so the lines are filled with romanticism and take us to an episode of a fabulous winter, where the poet sees a white birch tree under the window.
One of the symbols of Russia stands under the window, covered with snow that looks like silver. There is no need for deep analysis here to see all the beauty of Yesenin’s lines, combined with the simplicity of the rhyme. Yesenin pays tribute to the birch, because this tree has been associated with Russia for many centuries. They remember him on a long journey, and rush to him upon their return. Unfortunately, the mountain ash is more glorified in literature - a symbol of sadness and melancholy. Sergei Alexandrovich fills this gap.
Birch image
In order to understand the lines and feel them, you need to imagine a picture in which, in a frosty winter, a birch tree covered with snow stands under the window. The stove is on in the house, it’s hot, but it’s a frosty day outside. Nature takes pity on the birch and covered it with snow, like silver, which is always associated with purity.
The birch reciprocates, revealing itself in all its glory:
On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.
Nobility of nature
The sun shines gold on the silver, and there is frosty silence all around, which makes the author of the lines sleep. The combination of gold and silver is symbolic; they show the purity and nobility of nature in its original form.
Looking at this picture, one thinks about the eternal. What is young Yesenin thinking about, having just moved to Moscow from Konstantinovo? Perhaps his thoughts are occupied by Anna Izryadnova, who in a year will give birth to his child. Perhaps the author dreams of publication. By the way, it was “Birch” that became Yesenin’s first published poem. Published lines in the magazine "Mirok" under the pseudonym Ariston. It was “Birch” that opened the way for Yesenin to the pinnacle of poetic fame.
In the last quatrain, the poet shows the eternity of beauty. The dawn, which circles the earth every day, sprinkles the birch tree with new silver every day. In winter it is silver, in summer it is crystal rain, but nature does not forget about its children.
The poem “Birch” shows the poet’s love for Russian nature and reveals his ability to subtly convey natural beauty in lines. Thanks to such works, we can enjoy the beauty of winter even in the middle of summer and wait for the approaching frosts with longing in our hearts.
White birch
Below my window
Covered with snow
Exactly silver.
On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.
And the birch tree stands
In sleepy silence,
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire.
And the dawn is lazy
Walking around
sprinkles branches
New silver.
Many people know the text of Yesenin’s poem “White birch under my window” by heart. This is one of the first masterpieces of the still young poet. The poem became known to a wide circle of readers in 1914 after it appeared on the pages of the fashionable literary magazine Mirok. It was written a year earlier. At that time, few could have imagined that the work of the poet, hiding under the pseudonym Ariston, would become so popular.
Before Yesenin, many people sang birch in their works. But not everyone was able to so subtly and accurately convey light sadness, tremulous joy and sincere sympathy at the same time. Of course, everyone will read and perceive the poem “Birch” differently. It can be viewed narrowly as admiring the beauty of nature and an original artistic description of what happens to a tree in winter.
But the poet put much more meaning into the image of the birch. These are memories of native places, an unrealistic hope of returning to childhood, the desire to feel happy again. Behind the description of the birch tree in the poem are hidden images of Russia, which the poet genuinely admired. It was in thoughts about the Motherland and in the feeling of falling in love with it that Sergei Aleksandrovich Yesenin drew strength and inspiration.
Analysis of Yesenin’s poem “Birch”
It is not for nothing that the poet Sergei Yesenin is called the singer of Russia, since in his work the image of his homeland is key. Even in those works that describe mysterious eastern countries, the author always draws a parallel between overseas beauties and the quiet, silent charm of his native expanses.
The poem “Birch” was written by Sergei Yesenin in 1913, when the poet was barely 18 years old. At this time, he was already living in Moscow, which impressed him with its scale and unimaginable bustle. However, in his work, the poet remained faithful to his native village of Konstantinovo and, dedicating a poem to an ordinary birch tree, it was as if he was mentally returning home to an old rickety hut.
It would seem, what can you tell about an ordinary tree that grows under your window? However, it is with the birch tree that Sergei Yesenin associates the most vivid and exciting childhood memories. Watching how it changes throughout the year, now shedding its withered leaves, now dressing in a new green outfit, the poet became convinced that the birch tree is an integral symbol of Russia, worthy of being immortalized in poetry.
The image of a birch tree in the poem of the same name, which is filled with slight sadness and tenderness, is written with special grace and skill. The author compares her winter outfit, woven from fluffy snow, to silver, which burns and shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow in the morning dawn. The epithets with which Sergei Yesenin awards the birch are amazing in their beauty and sophistication. Its branches remind him of brushes of snow fringe, and the “sleepy silence” enveloping the snow-dusted tree gives it a special appearance, beauty and grandeur.
Why did Sergei Yesenin choose the image of a birch tree for his poem? There are several answers to this question. Some researchers of his life and work are convinced that the poet was a pagan at heart, and for him the birch tree was a symbol of spiritual purity and rebirth. Therefore, in one of the most difficult periods of his life, cut off from his native village, where for Yesenin everything was close, simple and understandable, the poet is looking for a foothold in his memories, imagining what his favorite looks like now, covered with a blanket of snow. In addition, the author draws a subtle parallel, endowing the birch with the features of a young woman who is no stranger to coquetry and a love of exquisite outfits. This is also not surprising, since in Russian folklore the birch, like the willow, has always been considered a “female” tree. However, if people have always associated the willow with grief and suffering, which is why it got its name “weeping”, then the birch is a symbol of joy, harmony and consolation. Knowing Russian folklore very well, Sergei Yesenin remembered folk parables that if you go to a birch tree and tell it about your experiences, your soul will certainly become lighter and warmer. Thus, an ordinary birch tree combines several images at once - the Motherland, a girl, a mother - which are close and understandable to any Russian person. Therefore, it is not surprising that the simple and unpretentious poem “Birch,” in which Yesenin’s talent is not yet fully manifested, evokes a wide variety of feelings, from admiration to slight sadness and melancholy. After all, each reader has his own image of a birch, and it is to this that he “tryes on” the lines of this poem, exciting and light, like silvery snowflakes.
However, the author’s memories of his native village cause melancholy, since he understands that he will not return to Konstantinovo soon. Therefore, the poem “Birch” can rightfully be considered a kind of farewell not only to his home, but also to childhood, which was not particularly joyful and happy, but, nevertheless, one of the best periods of his life for the poet.
Birch
White birch
Below my window
Covered with snow
Exactly silver.
On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.
And the birch tree stands
In sleepy silence,
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire.
And the dawn is lazy
Walking around
sprinkles branches
New silver.
Poems
“It’s already evening. Dew…"
It's already evening. Dew
Glistens on nettles.
I'm standing by the road
Leaning against the willow tree.There is great light from the moon
Right on our roof.
Somewhere the song of a nightingale
I hear it in the distance.Nice and warm
Like by the stove in winter.
And the birches stand
Like big candles.And far across the river,
It can be seen behind the edge,
The sleepy watchman knocks
A dead beater.
“Winter sings and echoes...”
Winter sings and echoes,
The shaggy forest lulls
The ringing sound of a pine forest.
All around with deep melancholy
Sailing to a distant land
Gray clouds.And there's a snowstorm in the yard
Spreads a silk carpet,
But it's painfully cold.
Sparrows are playful,
Like lonely children,
Huddled by the window.The little birds are cold,
Hungry, tired,
And they huddle tighter.
And the blizzard roars madly
Knocks on the hanging shutters
And he gets angrier.And the tender birds are dozing
Under these snowy whirlwinds
At the frozen window.
And they dream of a beautiful
In the smiles of the sun is clear
Beautiful spring.
“Mother walked through the forest in Bathing suit...”
Mother walked through the forest in Bathing Suit,
Barefoot, with pads, she wandered through the dew.The sparrow's feet pricked her with herbs,
The darling cried in pain from pain.Without knowing the liver, a cramp seized,
The nurse gasped and then gave birth.I was born with songs in a grass blanket.
The spring dawns twisted me into a rainbow.I grew to maturity, grandson of the Kupala night,
The dark witch prophesies happiness for me.Just not according to conscience, happiness is ready,
I choose bold eyes and eyebrows.Like a white snowflake, I melt into blue,
Yes, I’m covering my tracks to the homewrecker fate.
“The bird cherry tree is pouring snow...”
The bird cherry tree is pouring snow,
Greenery in bloom and dew.
In the field, leaning towards escape,
Rooks walk in the strip.Silk herbs will disappear,
It smells like resinous pine.
Oh, meadows and oak groves, -
I'm besotted with spring.Rainbow secret news
Shine into my soul.
I'm thinking about the bride
I only sing about her.Rash you, bird cherry, with snow,
Sing, you birds, in the forest.
Unsteady run across the field
I will spread the color with foam.
Birch
White birch
Below my window
Covered with snow
Exactly silver.On fluffy branches
Snow border
The brushes have blossomed
White fringe.And the birch tree stands
In sleepy silence,
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire.And the dawn is lazy
Walking around
Sprinkles branches
New silver.
Grandmother's tales
On a winter evening in the backyards
A rollicking crowd
Over the snowdrifts, over the hills
We're going home.
The sled will get tired of it,
And we sit in two rows
Listen to old wives' tales
About Ivan the Fool.
And we sit, barely breathing.
It's time for midnight.
Let's pretend we don't hear
If mom calls you to sleep.
All fairy tales. Time for bed...
But how can you sleep now?
And again we began to shout,
We're starting to pester.
Grandmother will say timidly:
“Why sit until dawn?”
Well, what do we care?
Talk and talk.
‹1913–1915›
Kaliki
Kaliki passed through villages,
We drank kvass under the windows,
At churches in front of ancient gates
They worshiped the most pure Savior.Wanderers made their way across the field,
They sang a verse about the sweetest Jesus.
Nags with luggage stomped past,
The loud-voiced geese sang along.The wretched ones hobbled through the herd,
They spoke painful speeches:
“We all serve the Lord alone,
Placing chains on the shoulders.”They took out the calicoes hastily
Saved crumbs for the cows.
And the shepherdesses shouted mockingly:
“Girls, dance! The buffoons are coming!”
Porosha
I'm going. Quiet. Rings are heard
Under the hoof in the snow.
Only gray crows
They made noise in the meadow.Bewitched by the invisible
The forest slumbers under the fairy tale of sleep.
Like a white scarf
A pine tree has tied up.Bent over like an old lady
Leaned on a stick
And right under the top of my head
A woodpecker is hitting a branch.The horse is galloping, there is a lot of space.
The snow is falling and the shawl is laying down.
Endless road
Runs away like a ribbon into the distance.
‹1914›
"The dozing bell..."
The dormant bell
Woke up the fields
Smiled at the sun
Sleepy land.The blows came
To the blue skies
It rings loudly
Voice through the forests.Hidden behind the river
White moon,
She ran loudly
Frisky wave.Quiet Valley
Drives away sleep
Somewhere down the road
The ringing stops.
‹1914›
“Beloved land! The heart dreams..."
Favorite region! I dream about my heart
Stacks of the sun in the waters of the bosom.
I would like to get lost
In your hundred-ringing greens.Along the boundary, on the edge,
Mignonette and riza kashki.
And they call to the rosary
Willows are meek nuns.The swamp smokes like a cloud,
Burnt in the heavenly rocker.
With a quiet secret for someone
I hid thoughts in my heart.I meet everything, I accept everything,
Glad and happy to take out my soul.
I came to this earth
To leave her quickly.
“The Lord came to torture people in love...”
The Lord came to torture people in love,
He went out to the village as a beggar.
An old grandfather on a dry stump in an oak grove,
He chewed a stale crumpet with his gums.The dear grandfather saw a beggar,
On the path, with an iron stick,
And I thought: “Look, what a wretched thing,”
You know, he’s shaking from hunger, he’s sick.”The Lord approached, hiding sorrow and torment:
Apparently, they say, you can’t wake up their hearts...
And the old man said, holding out his hand:
“Here, chew it... you’ll be a little stronger.”
“Go you, Rus', my dear...”
Goy, Rus', my dear,
The huts are in the robes of the image...
No end in sight -
Only blue sucks his eyes.Like a visiting pilgrim,
I'm looking at your fields.
And at the low outskirts
The poplars are dying loudly.Smells like apple and honey
Through the churches, your meek Savior.
And it buzzes behind the bush
There is a merry dance in the meadows.I'll run along the crumpled stitch
Free green forests,
Towards me, like earrings,
A girl's laughter will ring out.If the holy army shouts:
“Throw away Rus', live in paradise!”
I will say: “There is no need for heaven,
Give me my homeland."
Good morning!
The golden stars dozed off,
The mirror of the backwater trembled,
The light is dawning on the river backwaters
And blushes the sky grid.The sleepy birch trees smiled,
Silk braids were disheveled.
Green earrings rustle
And the silver dews burn.The fence is overgrown with nettles
Dressed in bright mother of pearl
And, swaying, whispers playfully:
"Good morning!"
‹1914›
"Is this my side, my side..."
Is it my side, my side,
Burning streak.
Only the forest and the salt shaker,
Yes, the spit beyond the river...The old church is withering away,
Throwing a cross into the clouds.
And a sick cuckoo
Doesn't fly from sad places.Is it for you, my side,
In high water every year
From the buttocks and the knapsack
Holy sweat pours out.Faces are dusty, tanned,
My eyelids have devoured the distance,
And dug into the thin body
Sadness saved the meek.
Bird cherry
Bird cherry fragrant
Bloomed with spring
And golden branches,
What curls, curled.
Honey dew all around
Slides along the bark
Spicy greens underneath
Shines in silver.
And nearby, by the thawed patch,
In the grass, between the roots,
The little one runs and flows
Silver stream.
Fragrant bird cherry,
Having hung himself, he stands,
And the greenery is golden
It's burning in the sun.
The stream is like a thunderous wave
All branches are doused
And insinuatingly under the steep
Sings songs to her.
‹1915›
“You are my abandoned land...”
You are my abandoned land,
You are my land, wasteland.
Uncut hayfield,
Forest and monastery.The huts were worried,
And there are five of them.
Their roofs frothed
Go into the dawn.Under the straw-riza
Planing the rafters.
The wind molds blue
Sprinkled with sunshine.They hit the windows without missing a beat
Crows wing,
Like a blizzard, bird cherry
He waves his sleeve.Didn't he say in the twig,
Your life and reality,
What in the evening to the traveler
Whispered the feather grass?
"Swamps and swamps..."
Swamps and swamps,
Blue board of heaven.
Coniferous gilding
The forest rings.Tit shading
Between the forest curls,
Dark spruce trees dream
The hubbub of mowers.Through the meadow with a creak
The convoy is stretching -
Dry linden
The wheels smell.The willows are listening
Wind whistle...
You are my forgotten land,
You are my native land!..
Rus'
I am weaving a wreath for you alone,
I sprinkle flowers on the gray stitch.
O Rus', peaceful corner,
I love you, I believe in you.
I look into the vastness of your fields,
You are all - distant and close.
The whistling of cranes is akin to me
And I am no stranger to a slimy path.
The swamp font is blooming,
Kuga calls for a long vespers,
And drops ring through the bushes
The dew is cold and healing.
And even though your fog clears away
The stream of winds blowing with wings,
But you are all myrrh and Lebanon
Magi, secretly doing magic.
‹1915›
«…»
Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and don't look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oat hair
You belong to me forever.With scarlet berry juice on the skin,
Tender, beautiful, was
You look like a pink sunset
And, like snow, radiant and light.The grains of your eyes have fallen off and withered,
The subtle name melted like a sound,
But remained in the folds of a crumpled shawl
The smell of honey from innocent hands.In a quiet hour, when the dawn is on the roof,
Like a kitten, it washes its mouth with its paw,
I hear gentle talk about you
Water honeycombs singing with the wind.Let the blue evening sometimes whisper to me,
What were you, a song and a dream,
Well, whoever invented your flexible waist and shoulders -
He put his lips to the bright secret.Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and don't look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oat hair
You belong to me forever.
“The distance became foggy…”
The distance became foggy,
The lunar crest scratches the clouds.
Red evening for kukan
Spread out a curly nonsense.Under the window from slippery willows
Quail sounds of the wind.
Quiet twilight, warm angel,
Filled with unearthly light.The sleep of the hut is easy and smooth
He sows parables with the grain spirit.
On dry straw in firewood
A man's sweat is sweeter than honey.Someone's soft face behind the forest,
Smells of cherries and moss...
Friend, comrade and peer,
Pray to the cow's sighs.
June 1916
"Where the secret always sleeps..."
Where the secret always sleeps,
There are alien fields.
I'm just a guest, a random guest
On your mountains, earth.The forests and waters are wide,
The flapping of air wings is strong.
But your centuries and years
The running of the luminaries has become foggy.It wasn't you who kissed me
My fate is not connected with you.
A new path is prepared for me
From sunset to the east.I was destined from the beginning
Fly into silent darkness.
Nothing, I'm at the farewell hour
I won't leave it to anyone.But for your peace, from the heights of the stars,
To that peace where the storm sleeps,
In two moons I will light over the abyss
Unsunset eyes.
Pigeon
* * *
In the transparent cold the valleys turned blue,
The distinct sound of shod hooves,
Grass, faded, on the spread floors
Collects copper from weathered willows.From empty hollows crawls in a skinny arc
Damp fog, curly curled into moss,
And the evening, hanging over the river, rinses
White water on blue toes.
* * *
Hopes are blooming in the autumn cold,
My horse wanders like a quiet fate,
And catches the edge of the waving clothes
His slightly wet brown lip.On a long journey, not to battle, not to peace,
Invisible traces attract me,
The day will go out, flashing the fifth gold,
And in a box of years the work will settle down.
* * *
Loose rust turns red along the road
Bald hills and thickened sand,
And the dusk dances in jackdaw alarm,
Bending the moon into a shepherd's horn.Milky smoke blows through the village wind,
But there is no wind, there is only a slight ringing.
And Rus' slumbers in its cheerful melancholy,
Clutching your hands into the yellow steep slope.
* * *
An overnight stay beckons, not far from the hut,
The garden smells of limp dill,
On the beds of gray wavy cabbage
The horn of the moon pours oil drop by drop.I reach for the warmth, inhale the softness of the bread
And with a crunch I mentally bite cucumbers,
Behind the smooth surface the trembling sky
Leads the cloud out of the stall by the bridle.
* * *
Overnight, overnight, I've known for a long time
Your accompanying blurring is in the blood,
The mistress is sleeping, and there is fresh straw
Crushed by the thighs of widowed love.It's already dawn, with cockroach paint
The goddess is circled around the corner,
But the fine rain with its early prayer
Still knocking on the cloudy glass.
* * *
Again there is a blue field in front of me,
The puddles of the sun shake the red face.
Others in the heart of joy and pain,
And a new dialect sticks to the tongue.The blue in your eyes freezes like water,
My horse wanders, throwing back the bit,
And with a handful of dark leaves the last heap
The wind blows from the hem.