Ah! You thought I'm the kind too,
To cry 'how could you forget me',
And praying and sobbing, throw myself
Under the horses' hooves.
Or that I'd ask the sorceress
For some enchanted root in water,
And send you a fatal gift –
My secretly-scented handkerchief.
I'd rather be damned. Not a look or sigh
Will reach your accursed soul,
But I swear by the angelic garden,
I swear by the miraculous icon,
And by our nights of fiery passion –
I'll never return to you.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; 'All I see is hilly Pavlovsk,'