To an Artist

Your work that to my inward sight still comes,
Fruit of your graced labours:
The gold of always-autumnal limes,
The blue of today-created waters—
 
Simply to think of it, the faintest drowse
Already has led me into your parks
Where, fearful of every turning, I lose
Consciousness in a trance, seeking your tracks.
 
Shall I go under this vault, transfigured by
The movement of your hand into a sky,
To cool my shameful heat ?
 
There I shall become forever blessed,
There my burning eyelids will find rest,
And I'll regain a gift I've lost—to weep.

1924

Бібліотека ім. Анни Ахматової >> Твори >> Переклади >> Збірки віршів (англ. мова)