Flowers, cold from the dew, And autumn's approaching breath, I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids, Which haven't faded yet. In their nights, fragrantly resinous, Entwined with delightful mystery, They will breathe in her springlike Extraordinary beauty. But in a whirlwind of sound and fire, From her shing head they will flutter And fallยand before her They will die, faintly fragrant still. And, impelled by faithful longing, My obedient gaze will feast upon themย With a reverent hand, Love will gather their rotting remains.
Anna AkhmatovaI go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.
Anna AkhmatovaAnd this tenderness was not like That which a certain poet At the beginning of the century called true And, for some reason, quiet. No, not at allย It rang out, like the first waterfall, It crunched like the crust of bluish ice And it prayed with a swanlike voice, And it broke down right before our eyes.
Anna Akhmatova