Alexander Blok
Above the lake

With this evening lake I hold discourse in the high
Harmony of song. In the slender thicket
Of high pines, from ramparts of sand,
From among graves and tombs where icon-lamps
Shine, and dusk is a smoky blue-gray,

I send her loving songs.
She does not see me, nor need she.
Like a tired woman she
Lies back and looks into the sky,
Mists over, slakes the distance with mist,
And takes the whole sunset from the sky.
Everything gratifies her whim:
That narrow boat, caressing the smooth surface,
The slim-stemmed hauteur of the pines,
The far bank’s semaphore,
Reflecting its green flash in her —
Yes, in these rose-colored waters
A triple-eyed serpent glides toward her,
Along its single iron path,
And before it whistles, the lake bears
Its hoarse creeping sound to me.
I stand on the terrace. Above me stands a tomb
Of somber granite. Beneath me runs
A path which whitens with the dusk.
And anyone looking up at me
Would be afraid: I am so motionless,
In my wide-brimmed hat, along the nocturnal graves,
Arms crossed, slender, in love with the world.

But there is no one to look up. Below are
Lovers hand in hand: they have no business
With the lake, which lies below,
Or with me, who stands above.
The sighs they need are human, while I,
I need the sighs of pine and water.
And the lake, that beauty, she needs,
That I, invisible to men, should sing
A lofty hymn telling how bright is the sunset,
How slender the pines, how free the soul.

All the couples pass. The dusk is now more blue,
The mist more white. I discern below
The light folds of a girl’s dress.
She passes, engrossed, along the path,
Sits down upon the steps
Of a grave and does not notice me.
I see a light profile. May she not know
I know what a despairing girl has come
To dream of here. The lights come on
In all the distant villas. There
Are samovars, blue cigar smoke, facile laughter.
She has come here unaccompanied.
Without a doubt, she is driving away
Some tight-tunicked officer
With a prominent behind and legs
Squeezed into drainpipe trousers!
She gazes as if beyond the mist,
Beyond the lake, the pines, the hills,
Somewhere far away, so far
I lack the strength to see myself.

Sweet girl, so delicate! — And soon
I begin to seek a name for her:
Say, Adelina. Say, Maria! Tekla!
Yes, Tekla! — And pensively she gazes
Into the curling mists... Ah, how she drove him
But the officer is already at hand: white tunic,
Above which are mustaches and a button nose,
And a pancake, flat like a service cap...
He goes up to her... takes her hand!.. darts
Little glances into her bright eyes!..
I even move out from behind the tomb,
And suddenly, he kisses her protractedly,
Offers his hand, and leads her off to the villa!

I burst out laughing, run back up, pelt them with
Cones, sand, I scream, dance
Among the graves, invisible and high...
I shout — “Hey! Fiokla! Fiokla!” And they,
Frightened, confused, do not know
Where the cones, laughter, and sand come from.
He quickens his step, not forgetting
To waggle his behind briskly, and she,
Snuggling tight against his tunic, almost
Runs beside him.

        Well, good night!
And running out onto a steep outcrop,
I am reflected in the lake... We see
Each other. “Hail!” I shout,
And with the voice of a beautiful woman, the lakeside
Woods respond with “Hail!”
I shout “Goodbye!,” they shout “Goodbye!”
Only the lake is silent, drawing its mists,
But everything is reflected clearly in it,
I and all my confreres:
The white night, God, the rocks, the pines.

And the pensive white night
Carries me home. And the wind whistles,
In my hot face. The train flies...
And morning whitens in my room.
On everything: on books and tables,
On my bed, the comfortable chair,
The tragic actress’s letter:
“I’m worn out. I’m sick.
Flowers do not gladden me. Write...
Farewell and burn this nonsense of mine...”

And the languid words. And the elongated hand,
Tired as the tired train of her dress...
And the letters burning with languor
Like a bright stone in black hair.

____
Shuvalovo — A resort near St. Petersburg. There is a graveyard on the steep hill by the lake.

Translated by Geoffrey Thurley