And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, <br />In the cool nursery of the young century. <br />And the voice of man was not dear to me, <br />But the voice of the wind I could understand. <br />But best of all the silver willow. <br />And obligingly, it lived <br />With me all my life; it's weeping branches <br />Fanned my insomnia with dreams. <br />And strange!--I outlived it. <br />There the stump stands; with strange voices <br />Other willows are conversing <br />Under our, under those skies. <br />And I am silent...As if a brother had died.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/willow/
