The cuckoo I asked
How many years I would live . . . The
Pine tops shivered,
A yellow shaft fell to the grass.
In the fresh forest depths, no sound . . .
I am going
Home, and the cool wind
Caresses my hot brow.

1919, 1 June

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

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