In Memory of V. C. Sreznevskaya by Anna Akhmatova

Impossible almost, for you were always here:

In the shade of blessed limes, in hospitals and bockades,

In the prison-cell, and where there were evil birds,

Lush grasses, and terrifying water.

How everything has changed, but you were always here,

And it seems to me that I have lost half my soul,

The half you were – in which I knew the reason why

Something important happened. Now I’ve forgotten…

But your clear voice is calling and it asks me not

To grieve, but wait for death as for a miracle.

What can I do! I’ll try.

 

– by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)

-written at Komarovo, St Petersburg on 9 September 1964

– from Седьмая книга (‘The Seventh Book’)

-translation by D. M. Thomas

The Season’s Last Flowers Yield by Alexander Pushkin

The season’s last flowers yield

more than those first in the field.

The thoughts they rouse, sharp, sweet,

have an incomparable power.

Likewise the parting hour

as against when we merely meet.

 

by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)

(1825)

translated by Christopher Reid