A snake, it coils
Bewitching the heart.
Day after day, coos
A dove on the white sill.

A bright flash in frost,
Drowsy night-scented stock…
Yet, sure and secret,
It's far from peace and joy.

It knows how to weep sweetly
In the violin's yearning prayer;
And is fearfully divined
In a stranger's smile.


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Return to the Anna Akhmatova Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; 'Memory of sun ebbs from the heart.'

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