It's endless – the heavy, amber day!
Impossible grief, pointless waiting!
And the silver-voiced deer, again,
Under the Northern Lights, belling.
And I think there's cold snow
A blue font for the poor and ill,
And a little sledge's headlong flow,
To the ancient chime of far-off bells.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; 'For the last time, we met,'