Anna Akhmatova
- He walked over fields and over village..., by Ilya Shambat
- Through villages and fields, he’d go..., by Andrey Kneller
«For all, I thank Thee, I, the meek remitter: / For passion's secret torments without end, / The kiss of venom, and the tears too bitter, / The vengeful enemy, the slanderous friend, / The spirit's ardor on the desert squandered, / For every lash of life's deceiving thong; / I thank Thee ...»
«Silent I sit by the prison's high window, / Where through the bars the blue heavens are breaking. / Flecks in the azure, the free birds are playing; / Watching them fly there, my shamed heart is aching. But on my sinful lips never a prayer, / Never a song in the praise of my charmer; / Al...»
«A collapsed door in the deaf wall, / And the heaps of overturned stones, / And piled upon them scrap metal, / And the depths that unfurl below. / And white ashes fanned by the wind — / That's all: God's voice, "The dead will rise".»
«The poet teaches something, though / Not with the wisdom of his words, / A thing considerably more likely to / Either turn people off or to bore. Whether sweet or bitter, you will have / To test by tasting it on your own. Life; / We all have our own unkind fates: / He teaches us to kee...»