By Anna Akhmatova
Glory to you, pain forever-enduring!
For yesterday died our young gray-eyed king.
The autumn-time evening was stuffy and red,
My husband, once back from his work, calmly said:
“I watched as they carried him back from the hunt,
Beside the old oak-tree his body was found.
I pity the queen. Him so young and so ripe.
Her hair turned to silver in one single night”.
He found his pipe lain atop of the hearth
And into the night he went, right back to work.
My daughter, my babe, from her crib I would raise,
And into her little gray eyes I would gaze.
While next to my window the poplars would sing:
“No more does he walk on this earth, your young king…”