Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
The little cloud was up in the sky
Like a spread out fleece of grey squirrel.
He said "I am not sorry that your body,
Will melt in March, my fragile Snow Maiden."
My hands turned cold inside a fluffy muff.
Fear and confusion came to the heart.
O how can I retrieve those fleeting weeks
Of his love, so short and so capricious.
I want no bitter feeling, nor revenge,
May I decease with the last white snow.
I asked the cards about him on the Twelfth-Night Eve
I was already his friend in January.