Book: Poems of Akhmatova

• I Wrung My Hands

  I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .
  "Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"

  12 lines, 1 comment
• In Memory Of M. B.

  Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
  not sticks of burning incense.

  20 lines, 1 comment
• Lot's Wife

  And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
  over a black mountain, in his giant track,

  17 lines, 1 comment
• Why Is This Age Worse...?

  Why is this age worse than earlier ages?
  In a stupor of grief and dread

  9 lines

• By me, right now

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Mick Mack

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