I HEAR THE ALWAYS-SAD VOICE OF THE ORIOLE

By Anna Akhmatova

I hear the always-sad voice of the oriole

and I salute the passing of delectable summer.

With the hissing of a snake the scythe cuts down

the stalks, one pressed hard against another.

And the hitched-up skirts of the slender reapers

fly in the wind like holiday flags. Now if only

we had the cheerful ring of harness bells,

a lingering glance through dusty eyelashes.

I don’t expect caresses or flattering love-talk,

I sense unavoidable darkness coming near,

but come and see the Paradise where together,

blissful and innocent, we once lived.

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY JANE KENYON

From “A Hundred White Daffodils” by Jane Kenyon (Graywolf Press: 230 pp., $16 paper)