To Anna Akhmatova

It seems I'm choosing the essential words That I can liken to your pristine power. And if I err, it's all the same to me, For I shall cling to all my errors still. I hear the constant patter on wet roofs, The smothered eclogue of the wooden pavements. A certain city comes clear in every line, And springs to life in every syllable. The roads are blocked, despite the tide of spring All round. Your clients are a stingy, cruel lot. Bent over piles of work, the sunset burns; Eyes blear and moist from sewing by a lamp. You long for the boundless space of Ladoga, And hasten, weary, to the lake for change And rest. It's little in the end you gain. The canals smell rank like musty closet-chests. And like an empty nut the hot wind frets Across their waves, across the blinking eyelids Of stars and branches, posts and lamps, and one Lone seamstress gazing far above the bridge. I know that eyes and objects vary greatly In singleness and sharpness, yet the essence Of greatest strength, dissolving fear, is the sky At night beneath the gaze of polar light. That's how I call to mind your face and glance. No, not the image of that pillar of salt Exalts me now, in which five years ago You set in rhymes our fear of looking back. But as it springs in all your early work, Where crumbs of unremitting prose grew strong, In all affairs, like wires conducting sparks, Your work throbs high with our remembered past.