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?"