Дух пряный марта... - пер. А. Блока

by Alexander Block

The heady smell of march was in the moonlit circle,
The sand was under melted snow crispy.
My town disappered in this wet, cold storming,
And hardly cried from love at someone's feet.

You pressed to me in awkward manner,
It seemed to me, that through the snort of horse
I hear the hungarian dance playing,
In heaven's dark it's teasing me by moan.

And crazy wind was racing over distance -
It tried to burn my soul out all,
It throwed veil into my face, while singing
About ages, being so old...

But suddenly you - distant, alien -
Had told with lightning to be seen:
That is a soul, which her last way's taking
And sobbing all about previous dream.