Anna Akhmatova
The specter

In the early evening, the suspended bowls
Of the pale street lamps grate.
Brighter and more festive grows
The whirling spray of flakes.

And through the softly falling snow,
Smoothly quickening their pace,
Under the dark blue web, as though
Sensing pursuit, the horses race.

The footman in his gilded livery
Stands unmoving behind the sleigh,
And the tsar with bright, vacant eyes
Gazes about him in a strange way.

Translated by Daniel Weissbort