Aleksandr Blok

There�s a morn demon. He�s of gauze and light,
The happy one � with golden hair.
Like skies, is blue his tunic�s airy flood,
All � in a play of brilliants, fair.

But like through azures sometimes look dark nights,
Thus through his face sometimes looks something horrid,
Something dark-red � through his curls� shining gold,
Through his soft voice � forgotten tempests� blasts.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002