Anna Akhmatova
The Polish church’s lofty vaults...

The Polish church’s lofty vaults
Are bluer than the skies…
O, merry boy, it’s all my fault,
I’ve brought you your demise. —

For all the roses from the garden,
For all you’ve written of,
For you, so dark and ardent,
Turned dull and pale from love.

I thought: it’s what you wanted —
Just like a grown-up might.
I thought that one so wanton
Could not be become your bride.

But it was all beyond repair.
And once the cold had come,
You’d follow, always, everywhere,
Already, seeming numb,

As if collecting there somehow
Signs of indifference. Please forgive me!
Why did you ever take the vow
To walk upon the path of grieving?

And death was reaching for you, pale...
What, then, became of you?
How fragile the throat, how frail
Under that collar of blue.

O, merry, cheerful boy, forgive,
My owlet, tormented outright!
O, it is just so hard to leave
This church for home tonight. 

Translated by Andrey Kneller