Muse

Анна Ахматова
(Anna Akhmatova)
1924

When I wait, at night, for her to come,
life, it seems, hangs by a strand.
What are honour, youth, freedom,
next to the dear guest, flute in hand?

And now she enters. Throws aside
her veil, gazing deep in my eyes.
I ask her: ‘Was that you, Dante’s guide
Dictating, in Hell?’ She answers: ‘I’.

Translated by A. S. Kline
© 2005 All Rights Reserved.

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