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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

Anna Akhmatova

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Anna Akhmatova
Age: 76 †
Born: 1889
Born: June 23
Died: 1966
Died: March 5
Author
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Poet
Translator
Writer
Odesa
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko
Anna Achmatova
Anna Ahmatova
Anna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova
Smile
Dead
Happy
Peace
Death
Time
Smiled

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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.
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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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And this tenderness was not like That which a certain poet At the beginning of the century called true And, for some reason, quiet. No, not at all— It rang out, like the first waterfall, It crunched like the crust of bluish ice And it prayed with a swanlike voice, And it broke down right before our eyes.
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I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity and at the bottom of it all: only love poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love
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The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.
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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.
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And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?
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