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Anna Akhmatova
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Poetry Foundation
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The Sentence
And the stone word fell / On my still-living breast. / Never mind, I was ready.
Thunder
There will be thunder then. Remember me. / Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire / world will turn the colour of crimson stone,
Twenty-First. Night. Monday
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. / Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. / Some good-for-nothing -- who knows why--
Under Her Dark Veil
Under her dark veil she wrung her hands. / "Why are you so pale today?" / "Because I made him drink of stinging grief
White Night
I haven't locked the door, / Nor lit the candles, / You don't know, don't care,
Why Is This Age Worse...?
Why is this age worse than earlier ages? / In a stupor of grief and dread / have we not fingered the foulest wounds
Willow
And I grew up in patterned tranquility, / In the cool nursery of the young century. / And the voice of man was not dear to me,
You Thought I Was That Type
You thought I was that type: / That you could forget me, / And that I'd plead and weep
You Will Hear Thunder
You will hear thunder and remember me, / And think: she wanted storms. The rim / Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
In Memoriam, July 19, 1914
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