Untitled
Untitled
by Anna Akhmatova
I wrung my hands under my dark veil...
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
--Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate...
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me--oh so calmly, terribly--
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
Translated from the Russian by
Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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Poetry
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