Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Willow - Poem by Anna Akhmatova

And I grew up in patterned tranquillity,
In the cool nursery of the young century.
And the voice of man was not dear to me,
But the voice of the wind I could understand.
But best of all the silver willow.
And obligingly, it lived
With me all my life; it's weeping branches
Fanned my insomnia with dreams.
And strange!--I outlived it.
There the stump stands; with strange voices
Other willows are conversing
Under our, under those skies.
And I am silent...As if a brother had died.


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Read poems about / on: brother, silver, wind, sky, dream



Poem Submitted: Thursday, January 1, 2004



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