My poems, written so early,
What I did not know that I - a poet,
Stumble and fall, as a spray of a fountain,
Like sparks from missiles

Erupting like little devils!
In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,
My poems about youth and death,
- Unread verse! -

Scattered in the dust of Shopping
(Where no one is taking and not taking!)
My poems, like precious wines,
There will be their turn.
Marina Tsvetaeva
May 1913