'All I see is hilly Pavlovsk,'


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.


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Return to the Anna Akhmatova Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; 'Already the maple leaves'

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