'A grey cloud in the sky overhead,'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Like a squirrel skin uncurled.

　　'I'm not sorry your body,' he said,

　　'Will melt in March, frail snow-girl!'

　　In the soft muff my hands grew cold.

　　Ifelt afraid, somehow confused.

　　How to recall the swift weeks' flow,

　　His short-lived insubstantial love!

　　I don't want bitterness or revenge,

　　Let me die with the last snow-storm.

　　My fortune told of him at year's end.

　　I was his before February was born.