The souls of those I love are on high stars.
How good that there is no-one left to lose
And one can weep. Tsarskoye Selo's
Air was made to repeat songs.
By the river bank the silver willow
Touches the bright September waters.
Rising from the past, my shadow
Comes silently to meet me.
So many lyres, hung on branches, here,
But there seems a place even for my lyre.
And this shower, drenched with sun and rare,
Is consolation and good news.

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

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