it will come to pass / They’ll call this undying love

Triumphs, vacant and shuttered,
The mysterious nontryst,
Speeches never uttered,
Words that don’t exist.
Looks that do not see
Don’t know where to go,
And only tears are happy
That they at length may flow.
The clawing wild roses, alas!
Go with this, hand in glove,
And it will come to pass
They’ll call this undying love.

[Anna Akhmatova, ‘4. First Little Song’, "Wild Roses are Blooming (From a Burned Notebook)" (1942), in Poems]