I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . . <br />"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" <br />-- Because I have made my loved one drunk <br />with an astringent sadness. <br /> <br />I'll never forget. He went out, reeling; <br />his mouth was twisted, desolate. . . <br />I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters, <br />and followed him as far as the gate. <br /> <br />And shouted, choking: "I meant it all <br />in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain." <br />He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly -- <br />and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-wrung-my-hands/
