I Wrung My Hands

I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .

"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"

— Because I have made my loved one drunk

with an astringent sadness.

I'll never forget.  He went out, reeling;

his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .

I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,

and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: "I meant it all

in fun.  Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."

He smiled at me — oh so calmly, terribly —

and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"

Kiev, 1911Translated by Stanley Kunitz (with Max Hayward)