Anna Akhmatova
No, no, I did not love you...

No, no, I did not love you, — gladly
Scorched though I was by such a flame;
And yet explain the strength that sadly
Still lingers for me in your name.

In front of me I saw you kneeling,
Like one who waited for a crown;
And round your youthful head was wheeling
Death’s silent shade to strike you down.

You went, — but not to triumph going;
You went to death. Oh empty night l
My Angel, may you stay not knowing,
Not seeing my despairing plight.

But if white suns from Paradises
Shine on the pathway in the spring,
But if the meadow bird arises
Among the spiked sheaves, on the wing.

Oh this is you, I know it, trying
To converse with me from the grave;
I see the shot-scarred hillock lying
Above the Dniester’s bloody wave.

Days of renown and love forgetting.
Forgetting days of youth gone by.
And crafty ways, and soul’s dark fretting.
Yet still your face, your fame unsetting
I shall remember till I die.

Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra