I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, <br />And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear <br />In the sickle's serpentine hiss <br />Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear. <br />And the short skirts of the slim reapers <br />Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, <br />The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping <br />From under dusty lashes, the long glance. <br /> <br />I don't expect love's tender flatteries, <br />In premonition of some dark event, <br />But come, come and see this paradise <br />Where together we were blessed and innocent.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-hear-the-oriole-s-always-grieving-voice/
