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[1960s]

579. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Из памяти твоей я выну этот день…»

Out of your memory I'll snatch this day, so vou will question, lost, with helpless eyes, «Where did I see the little wooden house, the Persian lilac, swallows in the sky?» The sudden longing of unnamed desires oh, very often you will call to mind, searching in pensive cities for a street uncharted on whatever map you find. Sight of some letter you did not expect — sound of a voice at some half-opened gate — and you'll be thinking, «Here she is herself, coming to help me in my faithless state».

[1960s]

580. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). Cadran solaire на Меньшиковом доме

A steamer passes churning up a wake. Familiar house with its cadran solaire. Spires gleaming, and reflections of these waves— nothing on all the Earth to me more fair! A narrow alley darkens like a crack. Sparrows alight upon a wire to rest. Even the salty taste of many strolls memorized long ago — is also blessed.

[1960s]

581. Анна Ахматова(1889–1966). «Муза ушла по дороге…»

The muse walked away up the trail, autumnal, narrow and steep. Large dewdrops were sprinkled over her dusky legs and feet. I'd begged her to wait till winter, to stay with through the fall. But she answered, «This is a grave here, How can you breathe at all?» I wanted to give her a present — the whitest dove I possessed — but the bird flew off on its own after my shapely guest. I watched her go. I was silent. She was my only love. And like a gate to her country The dawm was shining above.

[1960s]

582. Анна Ахматова (1889–1966). «Почернел, искривился бревенчатый мост…»

Bent and blackened the logs of the bridge's span and burdocks grow as tall as man and, dense, the thickets of nettles sing that they never will know a sickle's sting. There's a sigh at the lake when evening falls and wrinkled moss creeps over the walls. That's where I greeted my twenty-first spring. To my lips the pungent honey was the sweetest thing. Dry branches shredded that white silk dress of mine. A nightingale sang on and on in the crooked pine. He would hear me calling and would leave his lair, gentler than a sister, though wild as a bear. I would swim across the rivulet, run uphill, but oh, later I would never say «Leave me now, go».