Anna Akhmatova


Death of a Poet 


The unrepeatable voice won’t speak again,
Died yesterday and quit us, the talker with groves.
He has turned into the life-giving ear of grain
Or into the gentlest rain of which he sang.
And all the flowers that grow only in this world
Came into bloom to meat his death.
And straightway it’s grown quiet on the planet
That bears a name so modest…Earth.