It is no wonder that with no happy voice
My still unruly verse speaks now and then
And that I grieve. Already past Phlegethon
Three quarters of my readers have descended.
And you, my friends! So few of you remain
That you are dearer daily. I rejoice
In you. How short the road has become,
That once appeared the longest road of all.
Бібліотека ім. Анни Ахматової >> Твори >> Переклади >> Збірки віршів (англ. мова)