Alexander Blok, Russia, from Russian

As in the olden times again, Her primly virgin tones enchanting, Our hand-crafted wheels emmired, Midst a way untrodden. My poor Russian Mother, Your grayling shelter is mine, Your song in windy weather, The loving tears of time. Your sorrows to me unknown, Your torments borne alone... Sorceress, what do you wish? A savage, tender kiss. No snare or lure, Beguile or Depart thee, Nor sorrow blur, Eternal beauty. A battered stump's a forest, A tear's a rushing river, Forest and field, a conflux, Your brow's the wooden floor. Impossibility accomplished, A long road lightened, A flash in the distance, Her eyes lightened vision, Sadly cautious ringing, The deaf coachman's song.