The Guest

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Fine flakes wet the window pane,

　　And I myself am not new-born,

　　But a man came to me today.

　　I asked: 'What do you wish?'

　　He said: 'To be with you in hell'.

　　Ilaughed: 'Ah, sadly,

　　No: perhaps you wish me ill.'

　　But, his dry hand touched

　　A petal with a light caress:

　　'Tell me, how they kiss you,

　　Tell me, how you kiss.'

　　And his eyes, dully gazing,

　　Never lifted from my ring.

　　Not a single muscle shifting

　　Beneath that evil-glistening.

　　O, I understand: to know, passionately

　　And intensely, is his delight,

　　That there's nothing that he needs,

　　And nothing I can deny.