Do not run up so quickly on the porch my house burned. Do not look so closely at my face, You see - it's naked. Do not take my hands - this poem and so gives Akhmatova. A better go home, okay? Get out of here, get out! Vera Pavlova Not with some lovers we say goodbye, permanently keeping in mind this bruised scratch, consequence reminder, track-warning - as in the castle, which is opened. A friend? Maybe parting with them more likely to happen in a hurry on the run - and how then it is a pity that it is not caught, not silent, did not say some important words in time: "Some are not, and those far away." In the last century - the nineteenth ie, still can not get used to calling the past twentieth century, to adopt before the end of his departure - the people belonged to the separation from friends, with due reverence. The huge space, countless mile post, but early death all around, but the vicissitudes of fortune - all forced from the youth to experience each parting seriously. The fate of at any time could threaten with a finger - and this lovely young lady from a neighboring estate, look, she died in childbirth, not spending married a year, and an old friend of exiled and twice removed cousin two years traveling somewhere in Europe, and from it to the hearing, nor spirit ... So many separations in the great poetry of the past that you can almost physically feel the power and the "density" of the senses - whether friendly, whether of love.