Marina Tsvetaeva
Appointment

I’ll be late for the meeting
we arranged. When I arrive, my hair
will be grey. Yes, I suppose I grabbed
at Spring. And you set your hopes much too high.

I shall walk with this bitterness for years
across mountains or town squares equally,
(Ophelia didn’t flinch at rue!) I’ll walk
on souls and on hands without shuddering.

Living on. As the earth continues,
with blood in every thicket, every creek.
Even though Ophelia’s face is waiting
between the grasses bordering every stream.

She gulped at love, and filled her mouth
with silt. A shaft of light on metal!
I set my love upon you much too high.
And in the sky arranged my burial.

Translated by Elaine Feinstein