by Anna Akhmatova
I’ll be there and weariness will vanish.
The cold of early morning will please.
There are villages, mysterious and dark –
Storehouses of immortal labour.
My calm and trusting love
Of that place will never be vanquished.
There’s a drop of Novgorod blood
In me – a sliver of ice in foaming wine.
And that can never be altered,
It’s un-melted by great heat,
And no matter what I may praise –
You shine quietly before me.