Anna Akhmatova
The high vault is bluer...

The high vault is bluer
Than the sky’s solid blue...
Forgive me, happy boy,
The death I brought you —

For the roses from every place,
For your foolish words,
That your bold dark face
Pale with love, stirred.

I thought: your purpose —
To show an adult’s pride.
I thought it’s not possible:
Love, as one loves a bride.

I was wrong in every way.
When the weather grew icy,
Everywhere, and always,
You followed, impassively,

As if you wanted to show
I’d no love for you. Forgive!
Why did you take that vow
On the path to suffering?

And death held out its hand... oh,
Speak, why then, what for?
I didn’t know how frail your throat
Was under the blue collar.

Happy boy, my tormented
Owlet, oh, forgive me!
Today, I find it hard
To leave this sanctuary.

Translated by A. S. Kline