Osip Mandelshtam
To the Memory of Olga Vaxel

Is it possible to praise a dead woman?
She was an alien to her people and full of strength.
The power of her love for a stranger
brought her to a hot and violent grave.

The firm black swallows of her eyebrows
swoop down at me from the grave.
They tell me they’ve lain too long
In their cold bed at Stockholm.

Your people were proud of an ancestor’s violin —
Your neck bending over its neck improved its looks.
When you opened your mouth to laugh,
you too looked more Italian, and better-looking.

I keep your heavy memory,
wild one, little bear. Mignon...
But the wheels of the mills are fast in winter,
the horn of the postman is thinly blowing.

Translated by Robert Lowell