Anna Akhmatova Love

A snake, it coils
Bewitching the heart.
Day after day, coos
A dove on the white sill.

A bright flash in frost,
Drowsy night-scented stock…
Yet, sure and secret,
It’s far from peace and joy.

It knows how to weep sweetly
In the violin’s yearning prayer;
And is fearfully divined
In a stranger’s smile.