'I hear the oriole's ever-mournful voice,' by Anna Akhmatova

 I hear the oriole's ever-mournful voice,

And welcome the rich summer's losses.
Through the grain, packed tightly ear on ear,
The sickle slices, with its snake's hiss.

And the short skirts of the slim reapers,
Fly like festive flags in the breeze,
Now, the sound of bells would be joyful,
And a long gaze from under dusty lashes.

It's not caresses I want, nor flattery,
In premonition of some pressing darkness,
But come with me and gaze at paradise,
Where we were innocent and blessed.