‘The Churchyard’s Quiet…’ by Anna Akhmatova

The churchyard’s quiet on a Sunday,

Under an oak board I shall rest.

Come to me, my dearest, running,

Come to your mama, like a guest.

Over the stream and hillside run,

So the slow grown-ups disappear;

From far, the keen eyes of my son

Will recognize my cross. My dear,

I know I can’t expect you to

Remember me, who neither kissed

And dandled you, nor scolded you,

Nor took you to the eucharist.

 

– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1915)

– from Белая стая (White Flock, 1917) translation by D. M. Thomas

Sure by R.S. Thomas

Where the lamb died

a bird sings.

Where a soul perishes

what music? The cross

 

is an old-fashioned

weapon, but its bow

is drawn unerringly

against the heart.

 

 

by R.S. Thomas

from Mass for Hard Times (1992)