I have written down the words
I have long dared not to speak.
Dully the head beats,
This body is not my own.
The call of the horn has died.
The heart has the same puzzles.
Snowflakes, -light- autumnal,
Lie on the croquet lawn.
Let the last leaves rustle!
Let the last thoughts languish!
I don’t want to trouble
People used to being happy.
Because your lips are yours
I forgive their cruel joke…
O, tomorrow you will come
On the first sledge-ride of winter.
The drawing room candles will glow
More tenderly in the day.
I will bring from the conservatory
A whole bouquet of roses.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1910, Tsarskoye Selo)
– from Вечер (Evening, 1912), translation by D. M. Thomas