'For the last time, we met,'


For the last time, we met,
On the embankment, as ever.
High water in the Neva,
Fear of flood in the city.

He talked of the summer and said,
How absurd – a woman poet!
Iremember the Tsar's great palace,
The Peter and Paul fortress! –

Then, the air was not ours,
But a gift from heaven – wondrous.
And I, in that moment, was granted,
The latest of all my mad songs.


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Return to the Anna Akhmatova Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; 'Hands clasped under the dark veil.'

It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so.