Anna Akhmatova
Masquerade in the park

The moon illuminates the eaves,
And skims the crests of waves at night…
The chilly hands of the marquise
Are fragrant, delicate and light.

“O Prince! — she curtsies and exhales, —
“In quadrille, you’re the vis-à-vis,” —
The mask conceals her turning pale
From burning love and ecstasy.

The entryway’s obscured by sloping
Poplar trees and hops that fell.
“Baghdad and Constantinople,
I will win for you, ma belle.”

“You are smiling so rarely,
That I’m frightened in advance!”
The cold pavilion is shady.
“Well then! Maybe, let us dance?”

They walk off and lanterns flicker
On the elm and maple trunks.
Clad in emerald, ladies bicker,
Betting gaily with the monks.

With azaleas, Pierrot,
Smirks and starts a friendly chat:
“Prince! Are you the one who broke
The feather on marquise’s hat?” 

Translated by Andrey Kneller