Anna Akhmatova: Все стихи поэта

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"A Widow in Black"

A widow in black -- the crying fall

Covers all hearts with a depressing cloud...

While her man's words are clearly recalled,

She will not stop her lamentations loud.

It will be so, until the snow puff

Will give a mercy to the pined and tired.

Forgetfulness of suffering and love --

Though paid by life -- what more could be desired?

by Anna Akhmatova

"I Was Born In the Right Time"

I was born in the right time, in whole,

Only this time is one that is blessed,

But great God did not let my poor soul

Live without deceit on this earth.

And therefore, it's dark in my house,

And therefore, all of my friends,

Like sad birds, in the evening aroused,

Sing of love, that was never on land.

by Anna Akhmatova

"As a White Stone"

As a white stone in the well's cool deepness,

There lays in me one wonderful remembrance.

I am not able and don't want to miss this:

It is my torture and my utter gladness.

I think, that he whose look will be directed

Into my eyes, at once will see it whole.

He will become more thoughtful and dejected

Than someone, hearing a story of a dole.

by Anna Akhmatova

"I Don't Like Flowers"

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often

Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;

Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.

But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm

Which was my solace when I was a child,

Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind,

Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.

by Anna Akhmatova

In Dream

Black and enduring separation

I share equally with you.

Why weep? Give me your hand,

Promise me you will come again.

You and I are like high

Mountains and we can't move closer.

Just send me word

At midnight sometime through the stars.

by Anna Akhmatova

"Now no-one will be listening to songs"

Now no-one will be listening to songs.

The days long prophesied have come to pass.

The world has no more miracles. Don't break

My heart, song, but be still: you are the last.

Not long ago you took your morning flight

With all a swallow's free accomplishment.

Now that you are a hungry beggar-woman,

Don't go knocking at the stranger's gate.

by Anna Akhmatova

"If the Moon On the Skies"

If the moon on the skies does not roam,

But cools, like a seal above,

My dead husband enters the home

To read the letters of love.

He remembers the box, made of oak,

With the lock, very secret and odd,

And spreads through a floor the stroke

Of his feet in the iron bond.

by Anna Akhmatova

"And you, my friends who have been called away"

And you, my friends who have been called away,

I have been spared to mourn for you and weep,

Not as a frozen willow over your memory,

But to cry to the world the names of those who sleep.

What names are those!

I slam shut the calendar,

Down on your knees, all!

Blood of my heart,

by Anna Akhmatova

How Many Demands

How many demands the beloved can make!

The woman discarded, none.

How glad I am that today the water

Under the colorless ice is motionless.

And I stand — Christ help me! —

On this shroud that is brittle and bright,

But save my letters

So that our descendants can decide,

by Anna Akhmatova

Somewhere there is a simple life

Somewhere there is a simple life and a world,

Transparent, warm and joyful. . .

There at evening a neighbor talks with a girl

Across the fence, and only the bees can hear

This most tender murmuring of all.

But we live ceremoniously and with difficulty

And we observe the rites of our bitter meetings,

When suddenly the reckless wind

by Anna Akhmatova

He Did Love

He did love three things in this world:

Choir chants at vespers, albino peacocks,

And worn, weathered maps of America.

And he did not love children crying,

Or tea served with raspberries,

Or woman's hysteria.

...And I was his wife.

by Anna Akhmatova

"Along the Hard Crust"

Along the hard crust of deep snows,

To the secret, white house of yours,

So gentle and quiet – we both

Are walking, in silence half-lost.

And sweeter than all songs, sung ever,

Are this dream, becoming the truth,

Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor,

The light ring of your silver spurs...

by Anna Akhmatova