'...And no-one came to meet me'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Carrying a lantern.

　　The house quiet: my entry

　　By moonlight uncertain.

　　Under the green lamp,

　　His smile was lifeless,

　　Whispering: 'Cinderella,

　　How strange your voice...'

　　Flames of the fire dying:

　　Wearily, cricket chirping.

　　Ah! Someone's taken my

　　White shoe into their keeping.

　　Given me three carnations

　　Without raising their eyes.

　　O, dear tokens,

　　Where can you hide?

　　My heart's bitter too

　　Knowing soon, soon,

　　My little white shoe

　　Will be tried by everyone.