I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
-- Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.

I'll never forget.  He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun.  Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"

Kiev, 1911

Added: on July 21st, 2008 at 4:15 PM | Viewed: 4327 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Anna Akhmatova
Poem: I Wrung My Hands

Year: Published/Written in 1911
Poem of the Day on:
Aug 14 2003

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