You Thought I Was That Type
by Anna Akhmatova

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

 And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
  I swear by the miracle-working icon,
  And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
   I will never come back to you.


        HERE

Anna Akhmatova (1889 - 1966)