Your work that my inward sight still comes,
Fruit of your graced labours:
The gold of always-autumnal limes,
The blue of today-created water-
Simply to think of it, the faintest drowse
Already has led me into your parks
Where, fearful of everything turning, I lose
Consciousness in a trance, seeking your tracks.
Shall I go under this vault, transfigured by
The movement of your hand into a sky,
To cool my shameful heat?
There shall I become forever blessed,
There my burning eyelids will find rest,
And I’ll regain a gift I’ve lost-to weep.
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1924)
from Тростник (Reed) / Из шести книг (From the Six Books)
translation by D. M. Thomas