'You should appear less often in my dreams' by Anna Akhmatova

 You should appear less often in my dreams,

Since we meet so frequently;
Yet only in night's sanctuary
Are you sad, troubled, and tender.
And sweeter than seraphic praise
Is your lips' dear flattery…
Ah, in dreams you won't mistake my name,
Or gently sigh, as you do here.

'Yes, I loved those nocturnal gatherings - ' by Anna Akhmatova

 Yes, I loved those nocturnal gatherings -

The iced glasses on the little table,
A fine steam from the black, fragrant coffee,
The red fire roaring, the winter heat,
The laughter at caustic literary jokes,
And a stranger's gaze, helpless and dreadful.

'Why pretend to be' by Anna Akhmatova

 Why pretend to be

Now breeze, now stone, now a bird?
Why smile at me,
In sudden lightning from summer's sky?

Don't torture me further, and don't touch me!
Leave me to my prophetic dreams…
A drunken flame reels
Over the dry grey marshes.

And the Muse in a ragged shawl,
Sings a long despondent song,
With a harsh youthful yearning,
With her miraculous strength.

'Why do you wander, restless?' by Anna Akhmatova

 'Why do you wander, restless?'

Why do you wander, restless?
Why stare, unable to breathe?
Surely you understand, our two
Souls have been welded as one.

You, you'll be solaced by me
In a way no one could dream,
And when wild words wound –
It's you who'll feel it the most.

White Night by Anna Akhmatova

 Oh, I've not locked the door,

I've not lit the candles,
You know I'm too tired
To think of sleep.

See, how the fields die down,
In the sunset gloom of firs,
And I'm drunk on the sound
Of your voice, echoing here.

It's fine, that all's black,
That life's – a cursed hell.
O, that you'd come back –
I was so certain, as well.

'We shall not sip from the same glass,' by Anna Akhmatova

 We shall not sip from the same glass,

No water for us, or sweet wine;
We'll not embrace at morning,
Not gaze from the same sill at night;
You breathe the sun, I the moon,
Yet the one love keeps us alive.

Always with me, tender, true friend,
And your smiling friend's with you.
But I know the pain in your grey eyes,
And my sickness is down to you, too.
In short, we mustn't meet often,
To be certain of peace of mind.

Yet it's your voice sings in my poems,
And in your poems my breath sighs,
O, beyond the reach of distance or fear,
There is a fire…
And if you knew how dear to me
Are those dry, pale lips of yours now.

Venice by Anna Akhmatova

 Gold dovecote by waters,

Tender and dazzlingly green;
A salt-breeze sweeps away
The gondola's narrow wake.

Such sensitive, strange eyes in the streets,
The bright toys in the shops:
A lion with a book, on a lace pillow,
A lion with a book, on a marble pillar.

As in an ancient, faded canvas,
The sky is a cool, dull blue…
But one's not crushed in the crowd,
Nor stifled in this damp heat.

'To lose the freshness of speech, the simplicity of feeling,' by Anna Akhmatova

 To lose the freshness of speech, the simplicity of feeling,

Isn't that, for us, like a painter losing the power of sight,
Or an actor, their voice and movement,
Or a lovely woman, her beauty?

But don't try to keep to yourself
This gift the heavens have granted:
We're condemned – you know it yourself –
To squander, not hoard, its wealth.

Go alone, and heal the blind,
To know, in the heavy hours of doubt,
The mockery of gloating followers,
The indifference of the crowd.

'To feel thoroughly ill, to sweat in delirium,' by Anna Akhmatova

 To feel thoroughly ill, to sweat in delirium,

To meet everyone known again,
To roam the broad paths of a sea-side garden,
Filled with the wind and sun.

Today, even the dead, the exiled,
Choose to enter my home.
You are leading a child by the hand,
I have longed for him so.

I'll eat blue grapes with my dear ones,
I'll drink the ice cold wine,
And watch how the grey waterfall drops
Into moist, flinty depths.

'The sky's blue lacquer grows dim,' by Anna Akhmatova

 The sky's blue lacquer grows dim,

And louder the song of the flute,
It's only a pipe of clay,
There's no need for its complaint.
Who told it all my sins,
And inspired it to absolve me?...
Or is its voice repeating
Your last poems to me?

The road by the seaside garden darkens, by Anna Akhmatova

 The lights are a fresh yellow.

I'm at peace; but please, don't talk
To me about him.
You're kind and loyal, we'll be friends…
Walk, kiss, and be old…
Coming days will fly over us,
Lightly, like snowy stars.

'There's a secret border in human closeness,' by Anna Akhmatova

 For Nikolai Nedobrovo

There's a secret border in human closeness,
That love's being, love's passion, cannot pass –
Though lips are sealed together in dreadful silence,
Though hearts break in two with love's distress.

And friendship too is powerless, and years
Of sublime flame-filled happiness,
When the soul itself is free, a stranger,
To the slow languor of sensuality.

Those who try to reach that boundary are mad,
And those who have – are filled with anguish.
Now you know, now you understand,
Why my heart won't beat at your caress.

'There I saw out' by Anna Akhmatova

 There I saw out

My twenty-first year,
Sweet in the mouth
The dark, sultry honey.

On the twigs I tore
My white silk dress,
In the bowed pine,
The nightingale never rested.

At the cry of convention,
It flies from its perch,
Like a woodland spirit,
Like a tender sister.

Swiftly climbing the hill,
Swimming over the river,
Yes, and later,
Don't tell: leave me be.

The high vault is bluer' by Anna Akhmatova

 The high vault is bluer

Than the sky's solid blue…
Forgive me, happy boy,
The death I brought you –

For the roses from every place,
For your foolish words,
That your bold dark face
Pale with love, stirred.

Ithought: your purpose –
To show an adult's pride.
Ithought it's not possible:
Love, as one loves a bride.

I was wrong in every way.
When the weather grew icy,
Everywhere, and always,
You followed, impassively,

As if you wanted to show
I'd no love for you. Forgive!
Why did you take that vow
On the path to suffering?

And death held out its hand…oh,
Speak, why then, what for?
I didn't know how frail your throat
Was under the blue collar.

Happy boy, my tormented
Owlet, oh, forgive me!
Today, I find it hard
To leave this sanctuary.

The Guest by Anna Akhmatova

 All's as it was: the snowstorm's

Fine flakes wet the window pane,
And I myself am not new-born,
But a man came to me today.

I asked: 'What do you wish?'
He said: 'To be with you in hell'.
Ilaughed: 'Ah, sadly,
No: perhaps you wish me ill.'

But, his dry hand touched
A petal with a light caress:
'Tell me, how they kiss you,
Tell me, how you kiss.'

And his eyes, dully gazing,
Never lifted from my ring.
Not a single muscle shifting
Beneath that evil-glistening.

O, I understand: to know, passionately
And intensely, is his delight,
That there's nothing that he needs,
And nothing I can deny.

'The evening light is broad and yellow,' by Anna Akhmatova

 The evening light is broad and yellow,

Tender, the April chill.
You are many years late,
Yet I'm glad you are here.

Sit down now, close to me,
And look with joyful eyes:
Here it is, the blue notebook -
Filled with my childhood poems.

Forgive me that I lived in sorrow,
Rejoiced too little in the sun.
Forgive, forgive, that I mistook
Too many others for you.

'The bridge of logs is black and twisted,' by Anna Akhmatova

 The bridge of logs is black and twisted,

The burdocks stand shoulder high,
And a thick forest of nettles sings
Of how the bright sickle will never reap here.
At evening over the lake there's a sighing,
And rough moss creeps along the walls.

Song of the Last Meeting by Anna Akhmatova

 My heart was chilled and numb,

But my feet were light.
I fumbled the glove for my left hand
Onto my right.

It seemed there were many steps,
I knew – there were only three.
Autumn, whispering in the maples,
Kept urging: 'Die with me!

I'm cheated by joylessness,
Changed by a destiny untrue.'
I answered: 'My dear, my dear!
I too: I'll die with you.'

The song of the last meeting.
I see that dark house again.
Only bedroom candles burning,
With a yellow, indifferent, flame.

Solitude by Anna Akhmatova

 So many stones are thrown at me

That I no longer cower,
The turret's cage is shapely,
High among high towers.
My thanks, to its builders,
May they evade pain and woe,
Here, I see suns rise earlier,
Here, their last splendours glow.
And often winds from northern seas
Fill the windows of my sanctuary,
And a dove eats corn from my palm…
And divinely light and calm,
The Muse's sunburnt hand's at play,
Finishing my unfinished page.

Reply by Anna Akhmatova

 For Vasily Komarovsky

Such strange words
That quiet April day brought me.
You knew it was still alive in me,
That dreadful week of passion.

I heard no pealing of bells,
Floating in clear azure,
For seven days copper laughter chimed,
Silvery sorrow streamed.

And I, veiling my face,
As if for eternal parting,
Lay, awaiting there
The still-nameless torment.