Quote

Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.

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
Smell
Mouths
Violet
Gold
Smells
Freedom
Sunlight
Girl
Honey
Young
Wild
Nothing
Mouth
Like
Dust

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As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
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I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
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Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground whisk the lamps away.
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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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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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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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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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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
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Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.
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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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We are all carousers and loose women here How unhappy we are together!
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Give me bitter years of sickness, Suffocation, insomnia, fever, Take my child and my lover, And my mysterious gift of song This I pray at your liturgy After so many tormented days, So that the stormcloud over darkened Russia Might become a cloud of glorious rays.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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