Anna Akhmatova — To Alexander Blok

I came to see the poet.

Right at noon. On Sunday.

Behind the window panes

Of airy, spacious rooms

Deep frost and crimson sun

Hang over tousled smoke…

Oh, how quietly my host

Sets his bright eyes on me!

Those eyes of his - 

Can never be forgotten.

I know not to look in them,

And cautiously avert my gaze.

What I remember is our talk.

A smoky noon. And Sunday

In his house, gray and tall,

By the Neva's water-locks.