Pavillions spread over the square,
The maple leaves kiss the stars.
It's night — a celebration there,
Merriment and festivity in the park.
But when a pyrotechnist hurls
A silvery light from tree-tops to sky,
Poet, don't put your trust
In the night's fantastic bursts.
The rocket will fly off and die,
Its fiery sparks will grow dim...
But a poet's heart shines forever
In the pure depths of a poem.
Расступились на площади зданья,
Листья клена целуют звезду.
Нынче ночью - большое гулянье,
И веселье, и праздник в саду.
Но когда пиротехник из рощи
Бросит в небо серебряный свет,
Фантастическим выстрелам ночи
Не вполне доверяйся, поэт.
Улетит и погаснет ракета,
Потускнеют огней вороха...
Вечно светит лишь сердце поэта
В целомудренной бездне стиха.
«O Muse of Weeping... / — M. Tsvetaeva I have turned aside from everything, / From the whole earthly store. / The spirit and guardian of this place / is an old tree-stump in water. We are brief guests of the earth, as it were, / And life is a habit we put on. / On paths of air I seem ...»
«It’s good that Russia has no Tsar, / it’s good that Russia’s just a dream, / it’s good that God has disappeared, that nothing’s real, except the stars / in icy skies, the yellow gleam / of dawn, the unrelenting years. It’s good that people don’t exist, / that nothingness is...»
«The sun fills my room, / Yellow dust drifts aslant. / I wake up and remember: / This is your saint’s day. That’s why even the snow / Outside my window is warm, / Why I, sleepless, have slept / Like a communicant.»
«Do you forgive me these November days? / In canals around the Neva fires fragment. / Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.»