The sound draws near by Aleksandr Blok

A sound draws near. And, yielding to that poignant sound,

My soul grows again.

And, even in my dreams, I press your hand—against my lips I the hand of old—,

I dream—and once more I am a boy, once more a lover;

I see the ravine, the tangled weeds,

And amidst the weeds—the thorny wild rose flowers

And the evening blue mist.

Through the flowers, the leaves, and the prickly branches—I know it well—

The old house will gaze into my heart;

The sky will gaze again, blushing pink from horizon to horizon, as vell

And your window, opened apart.

This voice—it is yours. and to its mysterious sound

I’ld  surrender both life and sorrow,

Even as, in my dreams, I press your dear hand—the hand of old—

Close against my lips narrow.