Requests galore a loved woman has

"Aber wenn alles gut wäre, gäbe es vermutlich überhaupt keine Liebesbriefe. Denn sie sind eigentlich immer tragisch. Einen solchen Brief schreibt ja nur, wer nicht mit seiner Liebe vereint sein kann. So schmachtet der Komponist Johann Strauß: "Es geht ganz lustig zu in meinem Innern, fröhliche Melodien summen mir im Kopf, das von Freude, Glückseligkeit übervolle Herz schlägt lustig den Takt dazu." Oscar Wilde deliriert: "Meine Seele und mein Leib gehören mir nicht mehr, sie sind in himmlischer Ekstase Dir verschrieben", während Bertolt Brecht tiriliert: "Ich grüße Dich, Du Sphinx meines Mondscheinnachtskahnfahrtentraumwahnsinns."" weiter

• Einige Briefe von Clara und Robert Schumann.
  

Anna Achmatova (1889-1966)

* * *

Requests galore a loved woman has,
But one who is no longer loved has none.
I’m glad that underneath the film of ice
The freezing water’s slowing down its run.

And I shall stand – O Christ, sustain me! –
On that precarious, sparkling crust.
Keep safe our letters, so posterity
Can judgment pass on both of us.

So they will see you, brave and wise and candid,
As clearly and as truly as can be.
Because we can’t leave any blank spots, can we,
In your so glorious biography!

Too sweet the potion of our earthly joys,
Too tight the snares of love in which we caught…
But let my name be known to girls and boys
At school when literature they are taught.

And let them smile with archness or humility
When this sad story of my life they’ve read.
No love you gave to me, no tranquility,
Make me a gift of bitter fame instead…

1913

* * *

I’ll leave your snow-white home and quiet garden
And let my life be desolate and clear.
In poetry I then shall glorify you
As I could not before, a woman mere.
And of your life I’ll always be a part,
Here where for me you built a heaven,
While I’ll trade in the rarest wares there are:
Your love, your tenderness, I’ll be selling.

1913
Tsarskoye Selo

* * *

My eyes plead for mercy humbly,
But what I can do, I’m defenceless
When somebody suddenly utters
His short, startling name in my presence.

I walk past some grey stacked logs
Along a narrow clearing.
A fresh, erratic wind blows,
Vernally and freely.

And my heart hears in that breeze
News from afar, and it’s bad.
He’s alive, he breathes,
But how dare he not feel sad!

1912
Tsarskoye Selo

(Translated by Olga Shartse, from "Anna Akhmatova. Poems", 1988)