I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
“Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?”
– Because I have made my loved one drunk
with an astringent sadness.

I’ll never forget. He went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: “I meant it all
in fun. Don’t leave me, or I’ll die of pain.”
He smiled at me — oh so calmly, terribly –
and said: “Why don’t you get out of the rain?”
- Anna Akhmatova

My collection of Akhmatova poems has a different (more literal) translation but this one is my favorite. Akhmatova was an interesting lady – kind of a big deal in Russian poetry. Check out her page on poets.org. I read somewhere (don’t remember where now, so this may or may not be true) that when her son was arrested she had to burn all of her poetry and the only play she had ever written, in case they came after her. She was later able to recreate the poetry from memory, but apparently the play wasn’t the same. According to her contemporaries the play was actually quite good so we’re all sad that it’s lost to history. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be in such a climate (Stalin’s Russia) – where just the act of writing could get you jailed or killed. And to continue doing it! The artists and writers of that time are my heroes (see: The Master and Margarita).