Flowers, cold from the dew,And autumn's approaching breath,I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,Which haven't faded yet.In their nights, fragrantly resinous,Entwined with delightful mystery,They will breathe in her springlikeExtraordinary beauty.But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,From her shing head they will flutterAnd falland before herThey will die, faintly fragrant still.And, impelled by faithful longing,My obedient gaze will feast upon themWith a reverent hand,Love will gather their rotting remains.
Anna Akhmatova, The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova
autumn, death, dying, love, transience