The evening light is broad and yellow,
Tender, the April chill.
You are many years late,
Yet I'm glad you are here.
Sit down now, close to me,
And look with joyful eyes:
Here it is, the blue notebook -
Filled with my childhood poems.
Forgive me that I lived in sorrow,
Rejoiced too little in the sun.
Forgive, forgive, that I mistook
Too many others for you.
Return to the Anna Akhmatova library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Guest