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Best Famous Marina Tsvetaeva Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Marina Tsvetaeva poems. This is a select list of the best famous Marina Tsvetaeva poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Marina Tsvetaeva poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Marina Tsvetaeva poems.

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by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

Girlfriend

 "I will not part! -- There is no end!" She clings and clings.
.
.
And in the breast -- the rise Of threatening waters, Of notes.
.
.
Steadfast: like an immutable Mystery: we will part!


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

Grey Hairs

 These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which Granite is dross.
Dove, naked and brilliant, It has no mate.
Solomon's ashes Over vanity that's great.
Time's menacing chalkmark, Not to be overthrown.
Means God knocks at the door -- Once the house has burned down! Not choked yet by refuse, Days' and dreams' conqueror.
Like a thunderbolt -- Spirit Of early grey hair.
It's not you who've betrayed me On the home front, years.
This grey is the triumph Of immortal powers.


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

Little World

 Children - are staring of eyes so frightful, 
Mischievous legs on a wooden floor, 
Children - is sun in the gloomy motives, 
Hypotheses' of happy sciences world.
Eternal disorder in the ring's gold, Tender word's whispers in semi-sleep, On the wall in a cozy child's room, the dreaming Peaceful pictures of birds and sheep.
Children - is evening, evening on the couch, In the fog, through the window, glimmer street lamps, A measured voice of the tale of King Saltan, Mermaid-sisters of seas from tales.
Children - is rest, brief moment of respite, A trembling vow before God's eyes, Children - are the world's tender riddles, Where in the riddle the answer hides!


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

The Demon In Me

 The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold, In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage," The actor prates.
) And that hobbling buffoon Is no joker; In the body as in glory, In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever! Cherish your life, Only poets in bone Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers, We'll not have much fun, In the body as with Father's Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh, In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest Exile.
It blights.
In the body as in a secret, In the body as in the vice Of an iron mask.


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

The Window

 In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
Like a Hindu widow
To a pyre's golden blaze,
Like a drowsy Naiad
To past-window seas.


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

To Mother

 In the old Strauss waltz for the first time 
We had listened to your quiet call, 
Since then all the living things are alien 
And the knocking of the clock consoles.
We, like you, are gladly greeting sunsets, And are drunk on nearness of the end.
All, with which on better nights we're wealthy Is put in the hearts by your own hand.
Bowing to a child's dreams with no tire.
(Only crescent looked in them indeed Without you)! You have led your kids past Bitter lifetime of the thoughts and deeds.
From the early age the sad one's close to us, Laughter bores and home we left behind.
.
Our ship not in good times left the harbor And it sails by will of every wind! Azure isle of childhood is paling, On the deck of ship we stand alone.
It appears, oh mother, to your daughters You've left an inheritance of woe.


by Marina Tsvetaeva | |

Whence Cometh Such Tender Rapture?

 Whence cometh such tender rapture?
Those curls--they are not the first ones
I've smoothened, and I've already
Known lips--that were darker than yours.
The stars have risen and faded, --Whence cometh such tender rapture?-- And eyes have risen and faded In face of these eyes of mine I'd never yet hearkened unto Such songs in the depths of darkness, --Whence cometh such tender rapture?-- My head on the bard's own breast Whence cometh such tender rapture? And what's to be done with it, artful Young vagabound, passing minstrel With lashes--to long to say.