To The Young Poetess by Osip Mandelshtam

Your fair face, I state,  is tenderer than tender,3

Your tender hand, I state, is whiter than white;,

You are far removed from the world shipshape

And all that is yours stems from the inevitable—

From the inevitable comes your sorrow temerarious

And the warmth of your fingers, with well-groomed nails

And the quiet sound of words from your chiseled mouth

That know no despondency, and the distant gaze of your eyes.