By Anna Akhmatova 

(1924)

When in the night I’m staying up to see her,

And feel my life suspended by a thread,

I’d give up all the honor, youth, and freedom

For my dear guest, a pan pipe in her hand.

At last, she's here and, pulling off my blanket,

She studies me intently with her eyes.

I ask her: "Was it you who were dictating

Infernal cantos unto Dante?" 

“I”.