The poems rise as do the stars and roses,
As beauty in one's parents' home, in vain.
To praise from laymen, to apotheosis
The sole answer stays, "Who is to blame?"
We dream - and through the basement plates it's breaking,
The quadro-petal crowned heavens' guest.
Admit and learn; the stars' and flowers' making
Is what the dreaming singers know best.
Original: www.tsvetayeva.com/poems/stihi_rastut_kak