Only to read childrens’ books,
only to love childish things,throwing away adult things,
rising from saddest looks.
I am wearied to death with life.
There’s nothing it has that I want,
but I celebrate my naked earth,
there’s no other world to descant.
A plain swing of wood;
the dark, of the high fir-tree,
in the far-off garden, swinging;
remembered by feverish blood.
1908
Osip Mandelstam
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