by Anna Akhmatova
Ah! You thought I’m the kind too,
To cry ‘how could you forget me’,
And praying and sobbing, throw myself
Under the horses’ hooves.
Or that I’d ask the sorceress
For some enchanted root in water,
And
Ah! You thought I’m the kind too,
To cry ‘how could you forget me’,
And praying and sobbing, throw myself
Under the horses’ hooves.
Or that I’d ask the sorceress
For some enchanted root in water,
And
All I see is hilly Pavlovsk,
Meadow around, motionless water,
The most languid, the most shaded,
Most unforgettable spot.
When you drive through the gates,
A blessed tremor takes you,
Not just living, you’re mad, exultant,
Or
Already the maple leaves
Cover the swans’ pool,
And the blood-stained arms
Of late-ripening rowan.
And, dazzlingly slender,
Crossed legs impervious to cold,
She sits on a northern stone,
And gazes at the road.
Ifelt a vague
Always so many pleas from a lover!
None when they fall out of love.
I’m so glad it plunges, the river,
Beneath colourless ice above.
And I’m to stand – God help me! –
On the surface,
…And no-one came to meet me
Carrying a lantern.
The house quiet: my entry
By moonlight uncertain.
Under the green lamp,
His smile was lifeless,
Whispering: ‘Cinderella,
How strange your voice…’
Flames of the fire dying:
Wearily,
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
As a silver, delicate strand
Is woven in my dark tresses –
Only you, silent nightingale,
Can understand this torment.
Your sensitive ear hears distance,
In the willow’s thin branches,
Ruffled, you gaze – without breathing –
A string of little beads at my neck,
In a broad muff I hide my hands,
The eyes stare vacantly,
They never shed a tear.
And the face appears pale,
Against the lavender silk,
My straight bangs
I.
Horses along the ride,
Long waves of combed manes.
O enchanting town of enigmas,
I’m sad. I’m in love with you.
Strange to recall soul’s longing,
Suffocating, delirious death.
Now I’m simply a plaything,
Like the
Because somewhere there’s simplicity and light,
Transparent, warm and joyous…
There a neighbour talks with a girl at twilight,
Over the fence, and only the bees hear,
The most tender of murmurings.
While we live with ceremony,