Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)

Four Seasons Of the Year

I shall return today right there,
Where I had been at spring.
I’m neither sorry, nor unfair -
I only darkness bring.
It’s very deep, it’s like velvet,
It’s dearest to us
Like a dry leaf from a tree fled,
Like a wind’s whistle, that’s lone spread
Over the smooth of ice.

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