So many stones have been thrown at me, <br />That I'm not frightened of them anymore, <br />And the pit has become a solid tower, <br />Tall among tall towers. <br />I thank the builders, <br />May care and sadness pass them by. <br />From here I'll see the sunrise earlier, <br />Here the sun's last ray rejoices. <br />And into the windows of my room <br />The northern breezes often fly. <br />And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat... <br />As for my unfinished page, <br />The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm <br />And delicate, will finish it.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/solitude-4/
