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No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.

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
Shelter
Wings
Sky
Another
People
Vault
Vaults
Doomed

More quotes by Anna Akhmatova

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The celebrations Of secret nonmeetings are empty, Unspoken conversations, Unuttered words. Glances that don't intersect Don't know where to come to rest. And only the tears rejoice Because they can flow and flow. Sweetbrier around Moscow, Alas! Somehow it is here ... And all this they will call Love eternal.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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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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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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A land not mine, still forever memorable, the waters of its ocean chill and fresh. Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk, and the air drunk, like wine, late sun lays bare the rosy limbs of the pinetrees. 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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... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.
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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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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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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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Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.
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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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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.
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There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.
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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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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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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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