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I Wrung My Hands

I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . ."Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"— Because I have made my loved one drunkwith an astringent sadness.

I'll never forget.  He went out, reeling;his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .

I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: "I meant it allin fun.  Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."He smiled at me — oh so calmly, terribly —and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"Kiev,

Translated by Stanley Kunitz (with Max Hayward)

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Анна Ахматова

Стихи Анны Ахматовой. (11 [23] июня 1889 — 5 марта 1966) — поэт Серебряного века, переводчица и литературовед, одна из наиболее значимых фигур р…

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