Alexander Blok
On the railway

To Maria Pavlovna Ivanova

In the embankment’s mad roar,
A colored kerchief thrown over her hair,
She lies and watches, beautiful
And young, as though alive.

With a chaste gait, she had walked
Toward noise and whistling beyond the neighboring wood —
The whole length of the platform, then,
Nervous, waited beneath the roof.

Three bright eyes, bearing down —
A softer blush, severer locks:
Perhaps a passenger will stare
More intently from the passing train...

The coaches kept their usual line,
Grating and squealing as before,
Silent the blue and yellow ones,
The green ones full of weeping song.

Sleepy figures in the windows
Rise, and send blank gazes round the
Platform, and faded shrub-stocked garden,
Her, the policeman at her side ...

Once only a Hussar, carelessly leaning
His elbow on the scarlet velvet,
Smiled gently at her in passing...
In passing — and the train rushed on.

Just so, futile youth flew past,
Worn out in empty fantasies...
Till iron railroad longing shrieked,
And shrieking tore its heart apart...

Well, well, the heart’s long since extracted!
So many bows have been bestowed,
So many hungry looks abandoned
To the empty eyes of trains...

Do not go to her with questions,
You do not care — she’s had enough:
Everything hurts — by love, or wheels
Or mire, has been crushed.

Translated by Geoffrey Thurley