White birch under the poet's window. Sergei Yesenin - White birch under my window: Verse

Analysis of Yesenin's poem "Birch"
It is not for nothing that the poet Sergei Yesenin is called the singer of Russia, since the image of the motherland is the key in his work. Even in those works that describe the mysterious eastern countries, the author always draws a parallel between the 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 the work of the poet remained faithful native village Konstantinovo and, dedicating a poem to an ordinary birch, as if mentally returning home to an old rickety hut.

It would seem that you can tell about an ordinary tree that grows under your window? However, it is with the birch that Sergei Yesenin has the most vivid and exciting childhood memories. Watching how it changes during the year, either shedding withered foliage, or dressing in a new green outfit, the poet was convinced that it was the birch that was an integral symbol of Russia, worthy of being immortalized in poetry.

The image of a birch in the poem of the same name, which is filled with slight sadness and tenderness, is written out with special grace and skill. Her winter outfit, woven from fluffy snow, is compared by the author with silver, which burns and shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow in the morning dawn. The epithets with which Sergei Yesenin awards birch are amazing in their beauty and sophistication. Its branches remind him of tassels of snowy fringe, and the “sleepy silence” that envelops a snow-covered tree gives it a special look, beauty and grandeur.

However, the author's memories of his native village cause melancholy, as he understands that he will not return to Konstantinovo soon. Therefore, the poem "Birch" can rightly be considered a kind of farewell not only to his native home, but also to childhood, which is not particularly joyful and happy, but, nevertheless, is one of the poet's best periods his life.

Birch

White birch
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire

A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
sprinkles branches
New silver.

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 the episode fairy winter where the poet sees a white birch 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 a deep analysis to see 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. He is remembered in long road, they rush to him on his return. Unfortunately, mountain ash is more glorified in literature - a symbol of sadness and longing. Sergei Alexandrovich fills this gap.

birch image

In order to understand the lines and feel them, it is necessary to imagine a picture in which, in a frosty winter, a birch tree covered with snow stands under the window. The stove is heated in the house, it is hot, and outside the window is a frosty day. Nature takes pity on the birch and covered it with snow, like silver, which is always associated with purity.

Birch reciprocates, revealing in all its glory:

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

The nobility of nature

The sun casts gold on silver, and there is a frosty silence around, which makes the author of the lines dream. 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 eternity. What does young Yesenin, who has just moved to Moscow from Konstantinovo, think about? Perhaps his thoughts are occupied by Anna Izryadnova, who in a year will give birth to his child. Perhaps the author dreams of publishing. By the way, it was "Birch" that became Yesenin's first published poem. Published lines in the journal "Mirok" under the pseudonym Ariston. It was "Birch" that opened the way for Yesenin to the pinnacle of poetic glory.

In the last quatrain, the poet shows the eternity of beauty. The dawn, which goes around the earth every day, sprinkles the birch every day with new silver. In winter it is silver, in summer it is rain crystal, 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 expect the approach of frost with yearning in our hearts.

White birch
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire

A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
sprinkles branches
New silver.

Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin

White birch
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire

A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
sprinkles branches
New silver.

It is not for nothing that the poet Sergei Yesenin is called the singer of Russia, since the image of the motherland is the key in his work. Even in those works that describe the mysterious eastern countries, the author always draws a parallel between the 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.

Sergei Yesenin, 18 years old, 1913

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, seemed to be mentally returning home to an old rickety hut.

The house where S. A. Yesenin was born. Konstantinovo

It would seem that you can tell about an ordinary tree that grows under your window? However, it is with the birch that Sergei Yesenin has the most vivid and exciting childhood memories. Watching how it changes during the year, either shedding withered foliage, or dressing in a new green outfit, the poet was convinced that it was the birch that is an integral symbol of Russia, worthy of being immortalized in poetry.

The image of a birch in the poem of the same name, which is filled with slight sadness and tenderness, is written out with special grace and skill. Her winter outfit, woven from fluffy snow, is compared by the author with silver, which burns and shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow in the morning dawn. The epithets with which Sergei Yesenin awards birch are amazing in their beauty and sophistication. Its branches remind him of tassels of snowy fringe, and the “sleepy silence” that envelops a snow-covered tree gives it a special look, beauty and grandeur.

Why did Sergei Yesenin choose the image of a birch 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 in his soul, and for him the birch was a symbol of spiritual purity and rebirth.

Sergei Yesenin at the birch. Photo - 1918

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 snow blanket. In addition, the author draws a subtle parallel, endowing the birch with the features of a young woman who is not alien to coquetry and love for exquisite outfits. There is nothing surprising in this either, since in Russian folklore birch, like willow, has always been considered a “female” tree. However, if people have always associated willow with grief and suffering, for which it got its name “weeping”, then birch is a symbol of joy, harmony and consolation. Knowing Russian folklore perfectly, Sergei Yesenin remembered folk parables that if you approach a birch tree and tell it about your experiences, then your soul will certainly feel lighter and warmer. Thus, in an ordinary birch, several images were combined at once - the Motherland, the girl, the 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 range of feelings, from admiration to slight sadness and melancholy. After all, each reader has his own image of a birch, and it is to him that he “tryes on” the lines of this poem, exciting and light, like silver snowflakes.

However, the author's memories of his native village cause melancholy, as 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 native home, but also to childhood, not particularly joyful and happy, but, nevertheless, being one of the best periods of his life for the poet.

"Birch" Sergei Yesenin

White birch
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire

A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
sprinkles branches
New silver.

Analysis of Yesenin's poem "Birch"

It is not for nothing that the poet Sergei Yesenin is called the singer of Russia, since the image of the motherland is the key in his work. Even in those works that describe the mysterious eastern countries, the author always draws a parallel between the 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, seemed to be mentally returning home to an old rickety hut.

It would seem that you can tell about an ordinary tree that grows under your window? However, it is with the birch that Sergei Yesenin has the most vivid and exciting childhood memories. Watching how it changes during the year, either shedding withered foliage, or dressing in a new green outfit, the poet was convinced that it was the birch that is an integral symbol of Russia, worthy of being immortalized in poetry.

The image of a birch in the poem of the same name, which is filled with slight sadness and tenderness, is written out with special grace and skill. Her winter outfit, woven from fluffy snow, is compared by the author with silver, which burns and shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow in the morning dawn. The epithets with which Sergei Yesenin awards birch are amazing in their beauty and sophistication. Its branches remind him of tassels of snowy fringe, and the “sleepy silence” that envelops a snow-covered tree gives it a special look, beauty and grandeur.

Why did Sergei Yesenin choose the image of a birch 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 in his soul, and for him the birch 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 snow blanket. In addition, the author draws a subtle parallel, endowing the birch with the features of a young woman who is not alien to coquetry and love for exquisite outfits. There is nothing surprising in this either, since in Russian folklore birch, like willow, has always been considered a “female” tree. However, if people have always associated willow with grief and suffering, for which it got its name “weeping”, then birch is a symbol of joy, harmony and consolation. Knowing Russian folklore perfectly, Sergei Yesenin remembered folk parables that if you approach a birch tree and tell it about your experiences, then your soul will certainly feel lighter and warmer. Thus, in an ordinary birch, several images were combined at once - the Motherland, the girl, the 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 range of feelings, from admiration to slight sadness and melancholy. After all, each reader has his own image of a birch, and it is to him that he “tryes on” the lines of this poem, exciting and light, like silvery snowflakes.

Poems

“It's already evening. Dew…"

It's evening. Dew
Shines on nettles.
I'm standing by the road
Leaning against the willow.

Big light from the moon
Right on our roof.
Somewhere the song of a nightingale
In the distance I hear.

Good and warm
Like in the winter by the stove.
And birches stand
Like big candles.

And far beyond the river
Apparently, behind the edge,
Sleepy watchman knocks
Dead beater.

“Winter sings - calls out ...”

Winter sings - calls out,
Shaggy forest cradles
The call of a pine forest.
Around with deep longing
Sailing to a distant land
Gray clouds.

And in the yard a snowstorm
Spreads like a silk carpet,
But it's painfully cold.
Sparrows are playful
Like orphan children
Huddled at the window.

Little birds are chilled,
Hungry, tired
And they huddle tighter.
A blizzard with a furious roar
Knocks on the shutters hung
And getting more and more angry.

And gentle birds doze
Under these whirlwinds of snow
At the frozen window.
And they dream of a beautiful
In the smiles of the sun is clear
Spring beauty.

“Mother went to the bathhouse through the forest ...”

Mother went to the Bathhouse through the forest,
Barefoot, with podtyki, wandered through the dew.

Herbs were pricked by the fortune-telling legs,
The darling was crying in kupyry from pain.

Unbeknownst to the liver, seizures seized,
The nurse gasped, and here she gave birth.

I was born with songs in a grass blanket.
Spring dawns twisted me into a rainbow.

I grew up to maturity, the grandson of the Kupala night,
Witchcraft turmoil predicts happiness for me.

Only not according to conscience, happiness is at the ready,
I choose the prowess of the eyes and eyebrows.

Like a white snowflake, I melt in the blue,
Yes, I’m sweeping my trail to the fate-razluchnitsa.

“The bird cherry is throwing snow…”

Bird cherry sprinkles with snow,
Greenery in bloom and dew.
In the field, leaning towards shoots,
Rooks are walking in the band.

The silk grasses will vanish,
Smells like resinous pine.
Oh you, meadows and oak forests, -
I'm besotted with spring.

Rainbow secret news
Glow in my soul.
I think 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
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.

On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.

And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire

A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
Sprinkles branches
New silver.

Grandma's tales

Backyard on a winter evening
rollicking crowd
On snowdrifts, on hillocks
We're going, we're going home.
The sleds are disgusting,
And we sit in two rows
Listen to grandmother's tales
About Ivan the Fool.
And we sit, barely breathing.
The time is running towards midnight.
Let's pretend we don't hear
If mom calls to sleep.
All stories. Time for bed...
But how can you sleep now?
And again we roared,
We start to get on.
Grandma will say timidly:
“Why sit until dawn?”
Well, what do we care -
Speak to speak.

‹1913–1915›

Kaliki

Kaliki passed by villages,
We drank kvass under the windows,
At the churches before the gates of the ancients
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,
Loud geese sang along.

Wretched hobbled through the herd,
Suffering speeches were made:
“We all serve the Lord alone,
Laying the chains on the shoulders.

They took out the kaliki hastily
Saved crumbs for cows.
And the shepherds shouted mockingly:
"Girls, dance! The buffoons are coming!”

powder

I'm going. Quiet. Ringing is heard
Under the hoof in the snow.
Only gray crows
Made a noise in the meadow.

Bewitched by the invisible
The forest slumbers under the fairy tale of sleep.
Like a white scarf
The pine has tied.

Bent over like an old lady
Leaned on a stick
And under the very crown
The woodpecker hammers at the bitch.

The horse gallops, there is a lot of space.
Snow falls and spreads a shawl.
Endless road
Runs off into the distance.

‹1914›

"The dormant bell..."

Dozing bell
Woke up the fields
smiled at the sun
Sleepy land.

Blows rushed
To blue skies
loudly heard
Voice through the woods.

Hid behind the river
White moon,
ran loudly
Rough wave.

Silent Valley
Drives away sleep
Somewhere across the road
The call fades.

‹1914›

"Lovely land! The heart is dreaming ... "

Beloved edge! Dreaming of the heart
Stacks of the sun in the waters of the womb.
I would like to get lost
In the greens of your bells.

Along the border, at the crossroads,
Reseda and riza porridge.
And call the rosary
Willows are meek nuns.

The swamp smokes with a cloud,
Burn in the heavenly yoke.
With a quiet secret for someone
I kept my thoughts in my heart.

I meet everything, I accept everything,
Glad and happy to take out the soul.
I came to this earth
To leave her soon.

“The Lord went to torture people in love…”

The Lord went to torture people in love,
He went out as a beggar.
Old grandfather on a dry stump, in an oak tree,
Zhamkal gums stale donut.

The grandfather saw the beggar dear,
On the path, with an iron stick,
And I thought: “Look, how miserable, -
To know, it sways from hunger, sickly.

The Lord approached, hiding sorrow and torment:
It can be seen, they say, you can’t wake their hearts ...
And the old man said, holding out his hand:
"Here, chew ... you will be a little stronger."

“Goy you, Rus', my dear…”

Goy you, Rus', my dear,
Huts - in the robes of the image ...
See no end and edge -
Only blue sucks eyes.

Like a wandering pilgrim,
I watch your fields.
And at the low outskirts
The poplars are languishing.

Smells like apple and honey
In the churches, your meek Savior.
And buzzes behind the bark
There is a cheerful dance in the meadows.

I'll run along the wrinkled stitch
To the freedom of the green lekh,
Meet me like earrings
A girlish laugh will ring out.

If the holy army shouts:
"Throw you Rus', live in paradise!"
I will say: “There is no need for paradise,
Give me my country."

Good morning!

Golden stars dozed off,
The mirror of the backwater trembled,
Light shines on the river backwaters
And blushes the grid of the sky.

Sleepy birches smiled,
Tousled silk braids.
Rustling green earrings,
And silver dews are burning.

The wattle fence has an overgrown nettle
Dressed in bright mother-of-pearl
And, swaying, he whispers playfully:
"WITH Good morning!»

‹1914›

"Is my side, my side ..."

Is it my side, side,
Hot stripe.
Only the forest, yes salting,
Yes, the river scythe ...

The old church languishes
Throwing a cross into the clouds.
And sick cuckoo
Does not fly from sad places.

For you, my side,
In the flood every year
With a pillow and knapsacks
Praying sweat pours.

Faces are dusty, tanned,
Eyelids gnawed out the distance,
And dug into a thin body
Save the meek sadness.

bird cherry

Fragrant bird cherry
Bloomed with spring
And golden branches
What curls, curled.
Honey dew all around
Slips down the bark
Spicy greens underneath
Shines in silver.
And next to the thawed patch,
In the grass, between the roots,
Runs, flows small
Silver stream.
Fragrant bird cherry,
Hanging out, standing
And the green is golden
Burning in the sun.
Brook with a thundering wave
All branches are covered
And insinuatingly under the steep
She sings songs.

‹1915›

“You are my abandoned land ...”

You are my abandoned land,
You are my land, wasteland.
hay uncut,
Forest and monastery.

The huts are concerned
And all five.
Their roofs are foaming
Into the glowing path.

Under the straw
Rafter rafters.
Wind mold blue
Sprinkled with the sun.

They hit the windows without a miss
crows wing,
Like a blizzard, bird cherry
Waving his sleeve.

Didn't I say in the twig,
Your life and reality
What in the evening traveler
Whispered feather grass?

"Swamps and swamps ..."

Swamps and swamps
Blue boards of heaven.
Coniferous gilding
The forest is ringing.

Tit tit
Between forest curls,
Dark firs dream
The hubbub of mowers.

Through the meadow with a creak
The convoy is stretching -
Dryish linden
Smells like wheels.

Willows are listening
Wind whistle…
You are my forgotten edge,
You are my native land! ..

Rus'

I weave a wreath for you alone,
I sprinkle gray stitch with flowers.
Oh Rus', a quiet corner,
I love you, and I believe in you.
I look into the expanse of your fields,
You are all near and far.
Akin to me the whistle of cranes
And the slippery path is not alien.
The swamp font blooms,
Kuga calls for a long vespers,
And drops ring through the bushes
Dew cold and healing.
And even though your fog drives away
The stream of winds blowing with wings,
But all of you are myrrh and Lebanese
Magi, secretly sorcerers.

‹1915›

«…»

Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and do not look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oatmeal hair
You touched me forever.

With scarlet berry juice on the skin,
Gentle, beautiful, was
You look like a pink sunset
And, like snow, radiant and bright.

The grains of your eyes crumbled, withered,
The thin 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 a meek talk about you
Water honeycombs singing with the wind.

Let sometimes the blue evening whisper to me,
That you were a song and a dream
All the same, who invented your flexible camp and shoulders -
He put his mouth to the bright secret.

Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes
Swans and do not look for a trace.
With a sheaf of your oatmeal hair
You touched me forever.

"The distance was covered with fog..."

The distance was shrouded in mist,
The lunar crest scratches the clouds.
Red evening behind the kukan
Spread curly nonsense.

Under the window from slippery winds
Quail wind chimes.
Quiet dusk, warm angel,
Filled with unearthly light.

Sleep hut easily and evenly
With grain spirit he sows parables.
On dry straw in firewood
Sweeter than honey is the sweat of a man.

Someone's soft face beyond the forest,
Smells like cherries and moss...
Friend, comrade and peer,
Pray for cow breaths.

June 1916

"Where the mystery always slumbers ..."

Where the secret always slumbers
There are other fields.
I am only a guest, a random guest
On your mountains, earth.

Wide forests and waters,
Strong flutter of air wings.
But your centuries and years
Clouded the run of the luminaries.

I'm not kissed by you
My fate is not connected with you.
A new path has been prepared for me
From going east.

I was originally destined
Fly into the silent darkness.
Nothing at the hour of farewell
I won't leave it to anyone.

But for your world, from the starry heights,
In the peace where the storm sleeps
In two moons I will light over the abyss
Irresistible eyes.

pigeon

* * *

In the transparent cold, the valleys turned blue,
The sound of shod hooves is distinct,
Grass, faded, in the spread floors
Collects copper from weathered willows.

From empty hollows creeps a skinny arc
Raw mist curled curly into moss,
And the evening, hanging over the river, rinses
Water of white toes of blue feet.

* * *

Hopes are blooming in 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 rest,
Invisible traces attract me,
The day will go out, flashing the fifth gold,
And in the box of years the works will settle down.

* * *

Loose rust blush on the road
Bald hills and clotted sand,
And the dusk dances in jackdaw alarm,
Bending the moon into a shepherd's horn.

Milky smoke shakes the wind of the village,
But there is no wind, there is only a slight ringing.
And Rus' slumbers in its merry anguish,
Clutching your hands in the yellow steep slope.

* * *

Beckons overnight, not far from the hut,
The vegetable garden smells of sluggish dill,
On the beds of gray wavy cabbage
The horn of the moon pours oil drop by drop.

I reach for the warmth, I breathe in the softness of the bread
And with a crunch I mentally bite cucumbers,
Behind the smooth surface of the shuddering sky
Brings the cloud out of the stall by the bridle.

* * *

Overnight, overnight, I have long been familiar
Your passing fuzziness in the blood,
The hostess is sleeping, and the fresh straw
Crushed by the thighs of widowed love.

It's already dawning, cockroach paint
The deity is circled in the corner,
But a fine rain with his early prayer
Still knocking on the cloudy glass.

* * *

Again in front of me is a blue field,
The puddles of the sun sway the ruddy face.
Others in the heart of joy and pain,
And a new dialect sticks to the tongue.

Unsteady water freezes the blue in the eyes,
My horse wanders, throwing back the bit,
And with a handful of swarthy foliage the last heap
Throws the wind after from the hem.