Willow
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.
Next 10 Poems
- Anna Akhmatova : You Thought I Was That Type
- Anna Akhmatova : You Will Hear Thunder
- William Allingham : A Day-dream's Reflection
- William Allingham : A Dream
- William Allingham : A Gravestone
- William Allingham : A Memory
- William Allingham : A Seed
- William Allingham : A Singer
- William Allingham : Abbey Assaroe
- William Allingham : Adieu To Belshanny
Previous 10 Poems
- Anna Akhmatova : Why Is This Age Worse...?
- Anna Akhmatova : White Night
- Anna Akhmatova : Under Her Dark Veil
- Anna Akhmatova : Twenty-first. Night. Monday
- Anna Akhmatova : Thunder
- Anna Akhmatova : The Sentence
- Anna Akhmatova : Sunbeam
- Anna Akhmatova : Solitude
- Anna Akhmatova : Requiem
- Anna Akhmatova : Memory Of Sun