Alexander Blok
The Stranger

In the evenings, the sultry air above the restaurants
is both wild and torpid,
and drunken vociferations are governed
by the evil spirit of spring.

In the dusty vista of lanes
where reigns the suburban tedium of clapboard villas
the gilt sign of a bakery — a giant pretzel — glimmers,
and children are heard crying.

And every evening, beyond the town barriers,
in a zone of ditches,
wags of long standing, their jaunty derbies askew,
go for walks with their lady friends.

From the lake comes the sound of creaking oar locks
and women are heard squealing,
while overhead, the round moon,
accustomed to everything, blankly mugs.

And every evening my sole companion
is reflected in my wineglass,
as tamed and as stunned as I am
by the same acrid and occult potion.

And nearby, at other tables,
waiters drowsily hover,
and tipplers with the pink eyes of rabbits
shout: In vino veritas!

And every evening, at the appointed hour
(or is it merely a dream of mine?),
the figure of a girl in clinging silks
moves across the misty window.

Slowly she makes her way among the drinkers,
always escortless, alone,
perfume and mists emanating from her,
and takes a seat near the window.

And her taut silks,
her hat with its tenebrous plumes,
her slender bejeweled hand
waft legendary magic.

And with a strange sense of intimacy enchaining me,
I peer beyond her dusky veil
and perceive an enchanted shoreline,
a charmed remoteness.

Dim mysteries are in my keeping,
the orb of somebody’s day has been entrusted to me,
and the tangy wine has penetrated
all the meanders of my soul.

And the drooping ostrich feathers
sway within my brain,
and the dark-blue fathomless eyes
become blossoms on the distant shore.

A treasure lies in my soul,
and I alone have the keeping of its key.
Those drunken brutes are right:
indeed, – there is truth in wine...

Translated by Vladimir Nabokov