Evening Room

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Only once, born in the spirit.

　　Bees hum on white chrysanthemum:

　　There's the must of an old sachet.

　　And the room, with narrow windows,

　　Preserves love, remembers the past.

　　Over the bed a French script flows:

　　It reads: 'Lord, have mercy on us.'

　　Those saddened marks of so ancient a tale,

　　You mustn't touch, my heart, or seek to…

　　Isee bright Sèvres statuettes grow pale:

　　Even as their lustre grows duller too.

　　A last ray, yellow, heavy,

　　Sets on the dahlias' bright bouquet,

　　And I can hear viols playing,

　　A clavichord's rare display.