Poems of Akhmatova Quotes

“As the future ripens in the past,
so the past rots in the future --
a terrible festival of dead leaves.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“Without love, I'm more at ease, I'm sure.
The sky is high, the mountain wind is sweeping,
And all my thoughts are innocent and pure.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“Once taken by her, you glowed
And you drank her poisons, content.
Because all the stars seemed to grow,
And fields had a different scent,
Autumn fields.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“A town loved with bitter love.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“I, like a river,
Have been diverted by the ruthless era.
My life was switched.
It flows
Into another channel, past strange lands,
And I no longer recognize my shores.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“Three things enchanted him :
white peacocks, evensong,
and faded maps of America.
He couldn't stand bawling brats,
or raspberry jam with his tea,
or womanish hysteria.
...And he was tied to me.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“Let the poplars raise their chalices
for a sky-shattering toast,
like thousands of wedding guests drinking
in jubilation at a feast.
But in the room of the banished poet
Fear and the Muse stand watch by turn,
and the night is coming on,
which has no hope of dawn.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“Even after his death he did not return
to the city that nursed him.
Going away, this man did not look back.
To him I sing this song.
Torches, night, a last embrace,
outside in her streets the mob howling.
He sent her a curse from hell
and in heaven could not forget her.
But never, in a penitent's shirt,
did he walk barefoot with lighted candle
through his beloved Florence,
perfidious, base, and irremediably home.”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova

“I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice,
And the rich summer’s welcome loss I hear
In the sickle’s serpentine hiss
Cutting the corn’s ear tightly pressed to ear.
And the short skirts of the slim reapers
Fly in the wind like holiday pennants,
The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping
From under dusty lashes, the long glance.

I don’t expect love’s tender flatteries,
In premonition of some dark event,
But come, come and see this paradise
Where together we were blessed and innocent.

—Anna Akhmatova, “I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice,” Poems. (Everyman's Library; 1 edition May 16, 2006)”
― Anna Akhmatova, Poems of Akhmatova