Something of heavens ever burns in it,
I like to watch its wondrous facets’ growth.
It speaks with me in fate’s non-seldom fits,
When others fear to approach close.
When the last of friends had looked away
From me in grave, it lay to me in silence,
And sang as sing a thunderstorm in May,
As if all flowers began to talk in gardens.
by: Anna Akhmatova
Selected Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
- And as its Going
- Everything is Plundered
- Here is my gift
- How many demands
- Somewhere there is a simple life
- They Didn’t Meet