The old oak rustles about the past,
The moonbeam is lazily lingering.
Your blessed lips I
Never dream of touching.
A violet yashmak binds your pale brow.
You are with me. Quiet, ill.
My fingers chill and tremble
When I remember how thin your hands were.
I have been silent so many hard years.
The torment of that meeting is still unavoidable.
How long I have known your answer:
I love and was not loved in return.
Anna Akhmatova (1917)