Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov

“ Perchance that all life was created
For shaping of resonant airs;
Then seek thou how words may be mated,
From childhood that knows not of cares.
In moments of love-warm caresses
All passion within thee constrain;
And 'mid the rack's ruthless distresses
Belaud thou the raptures of pain.
Track, dreaming what Fate thee presages
At morn or in evening's deep hour;
And mark, how the poets through ages
Took garlands of thorns as their dower.
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