'All I see is hilly Pavlovsk,'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Meadow around, motionless water,

　　The most languid, the most shaded,

　　Most unforgettable spot.

　　When you drive through the gates,

　　A blessed tremor takes you,

　　Not just living, you're mad, exultant,

　　Or alive in a different way.

　　In late autumn it's fresh and biting,

　　Wandering breezes, joyful solitude.

　　Frosted white, the black fir-trees

　　Standing in melting snow.

　　And filled with fiery delirium,

　　The dear voice rings out in song,

　　On the lyre-player's bronze shoulder,

　　Sits a bird with a scarlet breast.