Моим стихам, написанным... пер. М. Цветаевой

For all my poems, which I did write so early,
That couldn't surmise myself to be a poet;
Which downfalled as splashes of the fountain,
As sparkles from the rocket;
Which bursted as the tribe of deuces
Into a holy place, where exist both dream and incense;
For all my poems about youth and pass
- Not read at least! -
Which're squandered in the shop grey dust
(Where nobody bought them, never want!)
For all my poems, as for the precious wines at last
There will be a turn.

-----
Марина Цветаева
 
Моим стихам, написанным так рано,
Что и не знала я, что я - поэт,
Сорвавшимся, как брызги из фонтана,
Как искры из ракет,

Ворвавшимся, как маленькие черти,
В святилище, где сон и фимиам,
Моим стихам о юности и смерти,
- Нечитанным стихам! -

Разбросанным в пыли по магазинам
(Где их никто не брал и не берет!),
Моим стихам, как драгоценным винам,
Настанет свой черед.

 Май 1913, Коктебель
----

см. также перевод И.Шамбата

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.