by Anna Akhmatova
There I saw out
My twenty-first year,
Sweet in the mouth
The dark, sultry honey.
On the twigs I tore
My white silk dress,
In the bowed pine,
The nightingale never rested.
At the cry of convention,
There I saw out
My twenty-first year,
Sweet in the mouth
The dark, sultry honey.
On the twigs I tore
My white silk dress,
In the bowed pine,
The nightingale never rested.
At the cry of convention,
No one sung about that meeting,
Sadness faded with never a song.
A cool summer it was,
Like a new life begun.
The sky seems a vault of stone,
Wounded by yellow fire,
And more than my
For Nikolai Nedobrovo
There’s a secret border in human closeness,
That love’s being, love’s passion, cannot pass –
Though lips are sealed together in dreadful silence,
Though hearts break in two with love’s distress.
And friendship too
I’ve written down the words
That I’ve not dared to speak.
My body’s strangely dumb.
Dully my head beats.
The horn cries have died.
The heart’s still confused.
On the croquet lawn, light
Autumn snowflakes fused.
Let
Now farewell, capital,
Farewell, my spring.
Karelia’s earth,
Already, yearns for me.
Fields and gardens,
Tranquil and green,
The waters there still deep,
The heavens pale.
The marsh water-nymph,
Mistress of those spaces
Gazes, sadly sighing,
At
The lights are a fresh yellow.
I’m at peace; but please, don’t talk
To me about him.
You’re kind and loyal, we’ll be friends…
Walk, kiss, and be old…
Coming days will fly over us,
Lightly, like
I was not born too early or too late,
The time was uniquely blessed,
Only the Lord did not permit
My heart to live without illusion.
That’s why it’s dark in the living-room,
That’s why my friends,
Now no one will listen to my songs.
The prophesied days have come to pass.
Last poem of mine, earth has lost its magic.
Don’t break my heart, don’t resound.
Not long ago, free as a swallow,
The sky’s blue lacquer grows dim,
And louder the song of the flute,
It’s only a pipe of clay,
There’s no need for its complaint.
Who told it all my sins,
And inspired it to absolve me?…
I won’t beg for your love.
It’s safely laid aside….
I won’t be penning jealous
Letters to your bride.
But be wise, take my advice:
Give her my poems to read,
Give her my photos beside –