Marina Tsvetaeva, Her Life in Poems - Rolf Gross

did not concern her.
My poems, written so early
That I did not know, that I was - a poet,
Thrown like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from a rocket,
That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
My poems about youth and death,
- Unread poems!
Scattered in dusty shops,
(Where no one ever took or bought them!)
My poems, like precious wines,
Their time will come.
Koktebel, May 13, 1913
They returned to Koktebel and Max's kind, olympian ministrations every summer until
1914. In 1914 facing a new fateful emotional upheaval she dedicated these lines to
Seryozha:
To S. E.
I am defiantly wearing his ring
- Yes, in Eternity – as wife, not on paper. -
His overly narrow face -
Like a sword.
His mute mouth angles down,
Painfully gorgeous eyebrows.
In his face tragically merged
Two ancient blood lines.
He is thin like subtle branches.
His eyes - beautifully-useless! -
Under the wings of his open brows -
Two abysses.
To his face I am faithful and true.
- As you all are, who lived and died without fear. -
Thus – in such fateful times -
I compose stanzas - and go on the block.
Koktebel, June 3, 1914
In Moscow awaited them the old drab every-day. Her father had been dismissed from
the directorship of the museum by the imperial minister. He, nevertheless, doggedly
worked on at no pay. Finally in 1912, a couple of months before Ariadne's birth, the
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