To The Londoners - Poem by Anna Akhmatova
(From the 'In the Fortieth Year')
The twenty-fourth drama of Shakespeare
Time's writing with its indifferent hand.
We, selves, the guests of the awful Feast here,
Better would read Hamlet, Caesar, and Lear
Over the river, in heavy lead clad;
Better - to bear, with singing and torches,
Juliet, the dove, to her family's graves,
Peep into windows of Macbeth's castle godless,
Tremble with scum - hired killers and knaves -
But not this one, Lord… oh, not this...oh, not this, -
To read this one we already haven't strengths!
Comments about To The Londoners by Anna Akhmatova
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You