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Best Famous Anna Akhmatova Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Anna Akhmatova poems. This is a select list of the best famous Anna Akhmatova poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Anna Akhmatova poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of anna akhmatova poems.

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Written by Anna Akhmatova |

I Dont Like Flowers...

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often
Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.
But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm Which was my solace when I was a child, Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind, Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

And As Its Going...

An as it's going often at love's breaking,
The ghost of first days came again to us,
The silver willow through window then stretched in,
The silver beauty of her gentle branches.
The bird began to sing the song of light and pleasure To us, who fears to lift looks from the earth, Who are so lofty, bitter and intense, About days when we were saved together.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

Along the Hard Crust...

Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet – we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever, Are this dream, becoming the truth, Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor, The light ring of your silver spurs.

More great poems below...

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black.
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger: "It's not very late, you have time to look back At these rose turrets of your native Sodom, The square where you sang, and the yard where you span, The windows looking from your cozy home Where you bore children for your dear man.
" She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all: Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground, Her body turned into a pillar of salt.
Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

Alexander By Thebes

I think, the king was fierce, though young,
When he proclaimed, “You’ll level Thebes with ground.
” And the old chief perceived this city proud, He’d seen in times that are in sagas sung.
Set all to fire! The king listed else The towers, the gates, the temples – rich and thriving… But sank in thoughts, and said with lighted face, “You just provide the Bard Home’s surviving.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |


This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned.
?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry.
" II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance.
Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome.
I pity the queen.
He, so young, past away!.
During one night her black hair turned to grey.
" He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race.
Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |


 So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders, May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier, Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat.
As for my unfinished page, The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm And delicate, will finish it.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

I Wrung My Hands

 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?"

Written by Anna Akhmatova |


 Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree -
that winter night of diamantine splendour.
Steam is pouring out of yellow stables, the Moika river’s sinking under snow, the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables, and where we are heading – I don’t know.
There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.
Whose soul can compare with my soul, if joy and fear are in my heart? - And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s, quivers at my shoulder, in the night, and the snow shines with a silver light, warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

Under Her Dark Veil

 Under her dark veil she wrung her hands.
"Why are you so pale today?" "Because I made him drink of stinging grief Until he got drunk on it.
How can I forget? He staggered out, His mouth twisted in agony.
I ran down not touching the bannister And caught up with him at the gate.
I cried: 'A joke! That's all it was.
If you leave, I'll die.
' He smiled calmly and grimly And told me: 'Don't stand here in the wind.
' "

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

In Memory of M. B.

 Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in, and stayed with her alone.
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I, I, sick with grief for the buried past, I, smoldering on a slow fire, having lost everything and forgotten all, would be fated to commemorate a man so full of strength and will and bright inventions, who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

You Thought I Was That Type

 You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul Vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, I swear by the miracle-working icon, And by the fire and smoke of our nights: I will never come back to you.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

I Taught Myself To Live Simply

 I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops I compose happy verses about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back.
The fluffy cat licks my palm, purrs so sweetly and the fire flares bright on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door I may not even hear.

Written by Anna Akhmatova |

White Night

 There will be thunder then.
Remember me.
Say ‘ She asked for storms.
’ The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire.
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving mI haven't locked the door, Nor lit the candles, You don't know, don't care, That tired I haven't the strength To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in The sunset murk of pine-needles, And to know all is lost, That life is a cursed hell: I've got drunk On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you'd come back.