My feather was brushing the top of the carriage
And I was looking into his eyes.
There was a pining in my heart
I could not recognise.
The evening was windless, chained
Solidly under a cloudbank,
As if someone had drawn the Bois de Boulogne
In an old album in black Indian ink.
A mingled smell of lilac and benzine,
A peaceful watchfulness.
His hand touched my knees
A second time almost without trembling.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (May, 1913)
– from Четки (Rosary, 1914), translation by D. M. Thomas
Rambling At The Bridge Head 