Blok, "Так. Буря этих лет прошла"

A work ("So now the storm of these wild years is through") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

So now the storm of these wild years is through;   
Here trudg'd the peasant's furrow, black and grey.  
Above me would my senses chance to stray,
Where I might hear the vernal wings anew ... 

O Spring, with whispers you bid me to rise,  
Words horrible and painful, yet so light: 
Gorged on sweet prayer, I will then delight 
To kiss your fabric, unseen to all eyes.   

Too rapidly my lonely heart does beat, 
With too much youth is my old blood endowed, 
When from behind a gently feathered cloud, 
My very first love glides on sprightly feet ... 

Forget this fearful world, my love, forget;
Lift forth your wings and to our place now home;
At that great feast I did not eat alone!  
And you I never, never shall forget!