Marina Tsvetaeva
To Byron

I'm thinking about morning of Your glory,
About morning of your days,
When suddenly You as demon had awoken
From dream, as god to every men.

I'm thinking about brows on Your face,
Met together, as the torches of Your eyes,
And the lava of Your blood of ages,
That along Your veins runs as a flood.

I'm thinking about fingers — long they are —
And about curly hairs Your's,
And about the round eyes, that are
Waiting in the alleys and in halls.

And about the hearts, which You — too young —
Couldn't help well learning in the times,
When there the Moons were rising high
And were down falling as Your prise.

I'm thinking about hall, lit scantily,
And the velvet, leaned to the laces new,
And about verses, which You could have been
Saying to me once, and I — to You.

And I'm thinking about dust in hand,
Which remained from Your lips and Your eyes...
About eyes, which long ago were left.
About them, and all about us.

Translated by Lyudmila Purgina