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.