You are with me once more, Autumn my friend!

Let any, who will, still bask in the south
On the paradisal sand,
It's northerly here—and this year of the north
Autumn will be my friend.
I'll live, in a dream, in a stranger's house
Where perhaps I have died,
Where the mirrors keep something mysterious
To themselves in the evening light.
I shall walk between black fir-trees,
Where the wind is at one with the heath,
And a dull splinter of the moon will glint
Like an old knife with jagged teeth.
Our last, blissful unmeeting I shall bring
To sustain me here —
The cold, pure, light flame of conquering
What I was destined for.


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

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