"Broad Gold, the Evening"

by Anna Akhmatova

　　The April air is cool and tender.

　　You should have come ten years ago,

　　And yet in welcome I surrender.

　　Come here, sit closer in our nook,

　　And turn gay eyes at what my nurses

　　Might never glimpse: the blue-bound book

　　That holds my awkward childish verses.

　　Forgive me that I did not look

　　Sunward with joy, but dwelt with sorrow,

　　Forgive me all whom I mistook

　　For you, oblivious of the morrow.