by Anna Akhmatova
My feather brushed the carriage roof.
I was gazing into his eyes.
The pain, in my heart, I failed to know,
Caused by my own sighs.
The evening breathless, heavily-chained
Under a heavenly cloud-bank,
As in the Bois de Boulogne, stained,
In some old album, with Indian ink.
Scent of lilac and benzene,
And a quiet, guarded waiting…
With his hand he touched my knees
Again, and without trembling.