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

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