Anna Akhmatova — The Guest

The blizzard beats with snow

On my windows, as before.

I have not become new,

Yet a visitor is at my door.

I asked, "What do you want?"

"To be in hell with you."

I laughed, "Oh, you will spell

For both of us misfortune."

But, lifting his lean hand,

He lightly touched the flowers.

"Tell me, how are you kissed?

How do you kiss the others?"

His dull and watchful eyes

Stayed anchored on my ring.

A bitter glow lit his face,

Unmoving, lucid, still.

Oh, this I know. His joy

Is knowing, with passion,

There's nothing that he needs,

That I'll deny him nothing.