"I Wrung My Hands..."

by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz

I wrung my hands under my dark veil...
"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"
--Because I have made my loved one drunk
with 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 all
in 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, 1911

from Poems of Akhmatova