Willow by Anna Akhmatova

And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, 

In the cool nursery of the young century. 

And the voice of man was not dear to me, 

But the voice of the wind I could understand. 

But best of all the silver willow. 

And obligingly, it lived 

With me all my life; it's weeping branches 

Fanned my insomnia with dreams. 

And strange!--I outlived it. 

There the stump stands; with strange voices 

Other willows are conversing 

Under our, under those skies. 

And I am silent...As if a brother had died.