'There I saw out'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　My twenty-first year,

　　Sweet in the mouth

　　The dark, sultry honey.

　　On the twigs I tore

　　My white silk dress,

　　In the bowed pine,

　　The nightingale never rested.

　　At the cry of convention,

　　It flies from its perch,

　　Like a woodland spirit,

　　Like a tender sister.

　　Swiftly climbing the hill,

　　Swimming over the river,

　　Yes, and later,

　　Don't tell: leave me be.