Anna Akhmatova …And no-one came to meet me

…And no-one came to meet me
Carrying a lantern.
The house quiet: my entry
By moonlight uncertain.

Under the green lamp,
His smile was lifeless,
Whispering: ‘Cinderella,
How strange your voice…’

Flames of the fire dying:
Wearily, cricket chirping.
Ah! Someone’s taken my
White shoe into their keeping.

Given me three carnations
Without raising their eyes.
O, dear tokens,
Where can you hide?

My heart’s bitter too
Knowing soon, soon,
My little white shoe
Will be tried by everyone.