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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345054" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Wrung My Hands</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345054" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . .<br>"Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?"<br>-- Because I have made my loved one drunk<br>with an astringent sadness.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345054" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I'll never forget. He went out, reeling;<br>his mouth was twisted, desolate. . .<br>I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,<br>and followed him as far as the gate.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345054" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">And shouted, choking: "I meant it all<br>in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."<br>He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly --<br>and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anna+Akhmatova">Anna Akhmatova</a></strong></div>

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