Halls grew darker
Halls grew darker and somehow faded.
Grates of windows drowned in black.
Every knight, every beautiful lady
Knew the tiding: “The Queen’s deadly sick.”
And the king, very silent and frowned,
Passed the doors, lost of pages and slaves …
Every word, that by chance cast around,
Proved the truth of the closing grave.
By the doors of the silent abode
I was crying, while pressing the brace …
At the end of the passage remote
Someone echoed me, hiding his face.
By the doors of the Beautiful Lady
I was sobbing, attired in blue …
And the stranger of ashen face sadly
Echoed me all my sufferings through.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Алекса́ндр Алекса́ндрович Бло́к