A Ride

by Anna Akhmatova

　　My feather brushed the carriage roof.

　　I was gazing into his eyes.

　　The pain, in my heart, I failed to know,

　　Caused by my own sighs.

　　The evening breathless, heavily-chained

　　Under a heavenly cloud-bank,

　　As in the Bois de Boulogne, stained,

　　In some old album, with Indian ink.

　　Scent of lilac and benzene,

　　And a quiet, guarded waiting…

　　With his hand he touched my knees

　　Again, and without trembling.