The Muse fled down the road,
The narrow, steep, autumnal road,
And her dusky feet
Were sprinkled with drops of dew.
For a long time I pleaded with her
To wait for the winter with me,
But she said: “It’s like a tomb here,
How can you still manage to breathe?”
I wanted to give her a dove,
The whitest of all doves,
But the bird itself flew
After my slender guest.
Following her with my eyes, I fell silent,
I loved her alone,
And sunrise stood in the sky
Like a gateway to her land.
Anna Akhmatova 15 December 1915