Upon the swan pond maple leaves Are fully gathered already, And bloodied are the branches dark Of slowly blooming quicken-tree. Blindingly elegant is she, Crossing her legs that don't feel cold Upon the northern stone sits she And calmly looks upon the road. I felt the gloomy, dusky fear Before this woman of delight As on her shoulders played alone The rays of miserable light. And how could I forgive her yet Your shining praise by love deluded Look, she is happily in rue, And so well-dressedly denuded. By Anna Akhmatova Translated by Ilya Shambat https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambat
