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A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life.

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
Never
Though
Mourns
Life
Forget
Lament
Woman
Mourn
Stills
Breath
Still
Breaths
Look
Gave
Looks
Loss
Heart
Wife
Laments

More quotes by Anna Akhmatova

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Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.
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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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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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A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me.
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This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel. How many spectacles I've missed: the curtain rising without me, and falling too. How many friends I never had the chance to meet.
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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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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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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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I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
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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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The secret of secrets is inside me again.
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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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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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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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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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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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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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