Flowers, cold from the dew,
And autumn's approaching breath,
I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,
Which haven't faded yet.
In their nights, fragrantly resinous,
Entwined with delightful mystery,
They will breathe in her springlike
Extraordinary beauty.
But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,
From her shing head they will flutter
And falland before her
They will die, faintly fragrant still.
And, impelled by faithful longing,
My obedient gaze will feast upon them
With a reverent hand,
Love will gather their rotting remains.
Autore: Anna Akhmatova
