I asked the cuckoo:
How many years will I live? …
The tips of the pine-trees quivered,
A yellow ray shone on the grass.
Yet no sound in the cool grove…
Now I am going home,
And a refreshing breeze
Kisses my burning brow.
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Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; 'I came here, in idleness.'