So many stones are thrown at me
That I no longer cower,
The turret's cage is shapely,
High among high towers.
My thanks, to its builders,
May they evade pain and woe,
Here, I see suns rise earlier,
Here, their last splendours glow.
And often winds from northern seas
Fill the windows of my sanctuary,
And a dove eats corn from my palm…
And divinely light and calm,
The Muse's sunburnt hand's at play,
Finishing my unfinished page.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; Song of the Last Meeting