Here you will find thePoemMuseof poet Anna Akhmatova
When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient, Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread. What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation, When compared with the gentle piper's tread? And she came in, threw out the mantle's edges, Declined to me with a sincere heed. I say to her, 'Did you dictate the Pages Of Hell to Dante?' She answers, 'Yes, I did.'
