Something of heavens ever burns in it, <br />I like to watch its wondrous facets' growth. <br />It speaks with me in fate's non-seldom fits, <br />When others fear to approach close. <br /> <br />When the last of friends had looked away <br />From me in grave, it lay to me in silence, <br />And sang as sing a thunderstorm in May, <br />As if all flowers began to talk in gardens.<br /><br />Anna Akhmatova<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/music-187/
