Akhmatova in Translation

Reading things in translation, one is never sure if the meaning is lost. Take Anna Akhmatova's poem, The Last Toast, of which numerous versions exist on the Net.

I drink to home, that is lost,
To evil life of mine,
To loneness in which we’re both,
And to your future, fine, --

To lips by which I was betrayed,
To eyes that deathly cold,
To that the world is bad and that
We were not saved by God.

Another translation:

I drink to the wreck of our life together,
And the pain of living alone.
I drink to the loneliness we share--
My dear, I drink to you.

I drink to the trick of a mouth that betrayed me,
To the eyes and the look that lied.
I drink to the terrible world we inhabit
And to God, who never replied.

The second one is far more elegant and understandable (in translation i.e.) but the first may well be a literal translation. And in some lines, the intent appears to be different.

Still, whichever way it is translated, there is an immediacy and beauty to Akhamtova's poems. And she was clearly a woman who knew how to convey much by being both elliptical and economical with words.