Бывают тихие минуты... - пер. А. Блока

There happens silent minute once.
The frost laces are seen on glass.
My dream clings there to someone,
Boring in warmness of my life...

A sudden mist of a garden moisture,
An iron bridge spans river sides,
A grey fence, braided with the roses,
And blue, blue slavery of eyes...

The flows, whispering of something,
My head, going round as in dance...
Your kisses, a khokhol (* ukranian) girl, binding,
Your words sound guttural in love...

June 1909