It's poetry, so it sounds unconventional in some places even in Russian. Here is a translation (a bit impromptu, but I hope you'll get the gist)

I am tenderly sick with a memory of my childhood
I dream about the mist and wetness of April evenings
Our maple tree looked like it squatted to get warm in front of the campfire of the dawn.
Oh, how many eggs I stole from crow nests by climbing up its [the maple's] bows!
Is it still the same, with a green top?
It its bark still strong?