'To lose the freshness of speech, the simplicity of feeling,'

by Anna Akhmatova

　　Isn't that, for us, like a painter losing the power of sight,

　　Or an actor, their voice and movement,

　　Or a lovely woman, her beauty?

　　But don't try to keep to yourself

　　This gift the heavens have granted:

　　We're condemned – you know it yourself –

　　To squander, not hoard, its wealth.

　　Go alone, and heal the blind,

　　To know, in the heavy hours of doubt,

　　The mockery of gloating followers,

　　The indifference of the crowd.