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[1930s]

573. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Чернеет дорога приморского сада»

Black road of the garden upon the shore, bright lanterns along the rim. And I am so calm. Only never more should anyone speak of him. You're sweet and so faithful, and you and I will kiss, like friends, as we go our way, and the months will lightly fly above us, like stars of snow.

20 Sept. [1920s]

574. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Широк и желт вечерний свет…»

Bright yellow is the twilight glow, and tender is the April chill. You should have come ten years ago, but I am glad to see you still. Come here, sit down, and nearer me, and look at me with merrv stare. This copy-book that's blue, you see,— I wrote my childish poems there. Forgive me that I lived in grief, rejoiced not in the sun, and, too, forgive, forgive my old belief that scores who came before — were you.

[1930s]

575. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Разлука

In twilight shadows sloping my road is stretched ahead. Last night, still loving, hoping, «Remember me», he said. And now — but breezes blowing, and cries of shepherds ring, and shaken cedars, growing beside the limpid spring.

21 Sept. [1930s]

576. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Теперь никто не станет слушать песен…»

None want to hear my songs now as of yore, the days that were foretold have come to be. My last, the world is wonderful no more stop ringing, do not rend my heart in me. But recently, you flew above the land free as a swallow every morning gay and now — а hungry beggar, you will stand no gate will open, though you knock all day.

[1930s]

577. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Подушка уже горяча…»

The pillow on either side is hot, and burning low the second candle has died, while the crow caws ever louder outside. I haven't slept all night, it's late to try in vain. How unbearably white the diapes on the white window-pane! Good morning!

[1960s]

578. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966).«Сказал, что у меня соперниц нет…»

Не said I had no rivals, said that I was not an earthly woman, but to him the solace of a winter sun, the wild song of our native country, like a hymn. And when I die, I know he will not grieve crying «Come back!» madly, as from a wrong, but suddenly see — the body cannot live without the sun, the soul — without a song. And what of now?