Marina Tsvetaeva — These my poems, written so early

These my poems, written so early

That I did not know then I was a poet,

Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain,

Like sparks from a rocket,

Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense

Like little devils having burst,

These my poems about youth and about death,

This unread verse!

Scattered through shops in piles of dust

Where nobody picked them up or does,

These my poems, like precious wine,

Will have their time.