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Akhmatova, "Художнику"

A work ("To the artist") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

Your work seems but a whim sometimes, 
Those labors blessed as they may be: 
Unceasing gild of autumn limes, 
Unending blue of newest sea. 

To think now that this slumber's glaze,  
Leads me anon into your grove, 
Where I, afraid of every maze,  
A-swoon seek traces of your trove. 

Beneath your arch should I then slip,
Swept by your hand into a sky,
To cool my hateful heat adrift?

And there I'll meet eternal bliss,
And there, with scorching lids closed tight,
Anew I'll find a tearful gift.

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