Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva Poems

Mother has painted the coffin brightly.
The tiny one sleeps in Sunday attire.
Onto the forehead no longer is falling
...

Homes reach the stars, the sky's below,
The land in smoke to it is near.
Inside the big and happy Paris
Remains the secretive despair.
...

In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
...

- She's- She's in the riverbed, in algae
And weeds...She went to them
To sleep, - but there's no sleep there, either!
...

For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
...

I know you not and in no way
I want to lose starry illusions
With such a face in worst confusion
People are loyal to a ray
...

Evening dimmed, like ourselves charmed
With this first warmth of the spring.
Stirring alive, Arbat was alarmed;
...

Evening noise in the burning sunset
On twilight of winter day.
The third call. Hurry, remember me,
You that are going away!
...

In a world where all
Are hunched and lathered
I know only one
Equal to me in strength.
...

Tender caresses of kind little sisters
Are ready for you.
With the birds' songs, O the charmed prince,
We're waiting for you.
...