Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941 / Moscow)
Evening dimmed, like ourselves charmed
With this first warmth of the spring.
Stirring alive, Arbat was alarmed;
With sympathetic tenderness, the kind
Gale touched us with a tired wing.
In our souls, raised on a fairy tale,
Sorrow quietly cried for past things.
He came - so unexpected! So hurriedly -
He who helped in all things before.
And far off in a line unconsolably
The streetlamps' radiant dots
Burned though light darkness some more…
All around flowers we bought;
We bought a bouquet.. What for?
Quietly withered away unseen garden
In the sky violet-red.
How to be saved from late trouble?
All returned. For a moment? For long?
We speechlessly looked at sun going to bed,
And Gogol nodded, thoughtful, from
The pedestral like a brother, sad.
Comments about this poem (Meeting by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva )
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