All I see is hilly Pavlovsk,
Meadow around, motionless water,
The most languid, the most shaded,
Most unforgettable spot.
When you drive through the gates,
A blessed tremor takes you,
Not just living, you're mad, exultant,
Or alive in a different way.
In late autumn it's fresh and biting,
Wandering breezes, joyful solitude.
Frosted white, the black fir-trees
Standing in melting snow.
And filled with fiery delirium,
The dear voice rings out in song,
On the lyre-player's bronze shoulder,
Sits a bird with a scarlet breast.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; 'Already the maple leaves'