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 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 AkhmatovaWe thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.
Anna AkhmatovaSweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.
Anna AkhmatovaDuring the terrible years of the Yekhov terror I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day someone โidentifiedโ me. Then a woman with lips blue with cold who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all and whispered in my earโ(we all spoke in whispers there): โCould you describe this?โ I said, โI can!โ Then something resembling a smile slipped over what had once been her face.
Anna AkhmatovaThis land, although not my native land, Will be remembered forever. And the sea's lightly iced, Unsalty water. The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk, The air is heady, like wine, And the rosy body of the pines Is naked in the sunset hour. And the sunset itself on such waves of ether That I just can't comprehend Whether it is the end of the day, the end of the world, Or the mystery of mysteries in me again.
Anna Akhmatova