Anna Akhmatova: Все стихи поэта

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Why Is This Age Worse?

Why is this age worse than earlier ages?

In a stupor of grief and dread

have we not fingered the foulest wounds

and left them unhealed by our hands?

In the west the falling light still glows,

and the clustered housetops glitter in the sun,

but here Death is already chalking the doors with crosses,

and calling the ravens, and the ravens are flying in.

by Anna Akhmatova

The Sentence

And the stone word fell

On my still-living breast.

Never mind, I was ready.

I will manage somehow.

Today I have so much to do:

I must kill memory once and for all,

I must turn my soul to stone,

I must learn to live again—

by Anna Akhmatova

Thoughts Of The Sunlight

Thoughts of the sunlight fainter and dimmer,

And parched the grass.

Breezes, freh breezes at dawn's early shimmer,

Flit by repass.

Look at the willows against a clear heaven,

Cloudless and wide.

Better, Far better not to be given

by Anna Akhmatova

In Memory Of M B

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,

not sticks of burning incense.

You lived aloof, maintaining to the end

your magnificent disdain.

You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,

and suffocated inside stifling walls.

Alone you let the terrible stranger in,

and stayed with her alone.

by Anna Akhmatova

March Elegy

I have enough treasures from the past

to last me longer than I need, or want.

You know as well as I . . . malevolent memory

won't let go of half of them:

a modest church, with its gold cupola

slightly askew; a harsh chorus

of crows; the whistle of a train;

a birch tree haggard in a field

by Anna Akhmatova

White Night

I haven't locked the door,

Nor lit the candles,

You don't know, don't care,

That tired I haven't the strength

To decide to go to bed.

Seeing the fields fade in

The sunset murk of pine-needles,

And to know all is lost,

by Anna Akhmatova

Solitude

So many stones have been thrown at me,

That I'm not frightened of them anymore,

And the pit has become a solid tower,

Tall among tall towers.

I thank the builders,

May care and sadness pass them by.

From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,

Here the sun's last ray rejoices.

by Anna Akhmatova

Lot's Wife

And the just man trailed God's shining agent,

over a black mountain, in his giant track,

while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:

"It's not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,

the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,

at the empty windows set in the tall house

where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

by Anna Akhmatova

Greetings!

Do you hear the soft rustle

beside your table?

Don't bother to write

for I'll come to you.

Is it possible you are angry

with me like the last time?

You say that you don't want to see my hands,

by Anna Akhmatova

But Listen, I Am Warning You

But listen, I am warning you

I'm living for the very last time.

Not as a swallow, nor a maple,

Not as a reed, nor as a star,

Not as spring water,

Nor as the toll of bells…

Will I return to trouble men

Nor will I vex their dreams again

by Anna Akhmatova

Sunshine Has Filled The Room

Sunshine has filled the room

with clear golden specks of dust.

I woke up and remembered,

dear, it was your birthday.

But far beyond my windows

snow has covered the ground,

And made me forget, so now to atone,

by Anna Akhmatova

I Wrung My Hands

I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .

"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"

— Because I have made my loved one drunk

with an astringent sadness.

I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;

his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .

I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,

and followed him as far as the gate.

by Anna Akhmatova