Alexander Blok (1880–1921)

INTO crimson dark thou goest,

Thy vast orbits mock the eye.

Small the echo that thou throwest,

Far, I hear thy footfalls die.

Art thou near?—too far for greeting?

Lost in topless altitudes?

Shall I wait a sudden meeting

Where sonorous stillness broods?

In the solitude resounding

Distant footsteps echo free.

Is it thou who flamest, bounding

Circles of infinity?