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)