from Poems for Akhmatova
У тонкой проволоки над волной овсов И бубенцы проезжие — свят! свят! свят! — Стою, и слушаю, и растираю колос, Не этих ивовых плавающих ветвей Для всех в томленье славщих твое подьезд — Тебе одной ночами кладу поклоны, — |
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Like ten thousand voices — above a field of Blessings! sacred! holy! — just as a multitude of I stand and listen, stop to cup my ear — a dark And sailing willow branches do not Although the tired at your doorway sing you To you alone at night I pray, and 1 July 1916, Moscow
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