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But Fear and the Muse in turn guard the place Where the banished poet has gone And the night that comes with quickened pace Is ignorant of dawn.

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
Poetry
Quickened
Turn
Banished
Gone
Muse
Turns
Guard
Fear
Pace
Comes
Dawn
Night
Ignorant
Place
Poet

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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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Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
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If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.
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Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.
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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.
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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.
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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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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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But here, in the murk of conflagration, where scarcely a friend is left to know we, the survivors, do not flinch from anything, not from a single blow. Surely the reckoning will be made after the passing of this cloud. We are the people without tears, straighter than you ... more proud.
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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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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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This Cruel Age has deflected me.
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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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And you know, I agree to everything: I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy, Darkness will be light and sin lovely.
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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.
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