You Thought I Was That Type by Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

by Anna Akhmatova

Other poems by 'Anna Akhmatova'

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I Wrung My Hands

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Memory Of Sun

Requiem

Solitude

The Sentence

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Under Her Dark Veil

Lot's Wife

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