Alexander Blok
By the north sea

What were those strolling fops and dandies
Making of the seashore?
They set up tables, smoke, chew,
Sip soft drinks. Then wander about the beach
Moodily laughing and infecting
The salty air with their gossip. Then,
Their drivers take them out in kibitkas²
Covered coquettishly by canvas,
Into the shallows. There, the women changing
Their funny dresses and the men their uniforms
For light bathing wear
And exposing flabby muscles and chests,
They tiptoe squealing into the water. They probe
The bottom with clumsy feet.
They shout As if to prove they are enjoying themselves.

But over there, the sunset has created from the sky
A deep and many-colored goblet. One glow
Stretches its arms out toward the other,
And, sisters of twin heavens, they spin
A single mist, now pink, now mauve.
And a cloud drowning in the sea
Furiously, in its death throes, sends from its eyes
Fires now scarlet, now blue.
And on the long pier, reaching
Gray and rotting out into the sea,
Reading the graffiti: “With you always,”
“Kate and Kolya were here,” “Brother
Didior and Novice Isidor
Were here. Wondrous are the works of God.”
Reading the graffiti, we go out to sea
In a potbellied, farcical motorboat.

Gasoline put-puts and reeks. Two wings curve
Out into the water behind us. The swift wake curls,
And leaving far behind the idlers on the beach,
The fishing boats, the narrow headland, the lighthouse,
We run out, with a many-colored wash,
Into the wide, expansive tender brine.

On the horizon, behind us, far away,
A conflagration sends up a silent glow.
The fishing island of Volny³ stretches
in the water like the flat back of a sea
Creature. But ahead, in the distance,
Are boat lights, and the wandering shaft
Of a customs vessel’s searchlight.

And we go out into the pale blue haze.
The buoys lean slantwise from the water,
Like panicles, marking the roads,
And far away — from buoy to buoy —
Loom sails of fishing schooners ...

A calm holds the sea. Under sail,
A lovely lady—an oceangoing yacht.
On the slender mast hangs a small lantern,
Which, like a precious coronet’s stone,
Burns in the dull brow of the sky.

And on the bow, in complete silence,
Amid the fantastic clutter of tackle,
There sit, cross-armed, people in bright
Panama hats, pulled down over stern faces,
And in their midst, by the mast itself, unspeaking,
A sailor stands, dark, and watches.

We round the yacht, decorously enough,
And one of us courteously and softly
Says, “Do you want a tow?”
And with impressive simplicity, a stern
Voice answers us, “No, thanks.”

And rounding them once again, we watch
With souls devout and overflowing
The silently receding silhouette
Of the lovely lady under sail,
The coronet’s precious stone,
Burning upon the swarthy brow of the dusk.

Sestroretsk⁴

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1. By the north sea — The Gulf of Finland.
2. Russian wagons or sledges with rounded covers or hoods.
3. An island in the Neva delta.
4. A resort on the Gulf of Finland not far from St. Petersburg.

Translated by Geoffrey Thurley