Neither by cart nor boat
Could you have got here.
On rotten snow
The deep water;
Farmsteads marooned and
Ah! that morose
Soul, that Robinson,
Is so close.
How often can
He inspect sledge and skis,
Return to the divan
To sit and wait for me?
And his short spur grinds
Sheer through the vile
Rug. Now mirrors learn
Not to expect smiles.
– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova) (1916)
– from Белая стая (White Flock, 1917) translation by D. M. Thomas
Rambling At The Bridge Head 