I'd love to live with you in a small town,
with eternal twilight and eternal bells.
And tender ringing of antique clock, like drops of time,
at a small country hotel.
And sometimes, at evenings, out of some mansard -
a flute,
and a flute-player himself in a window,
And large tulips on windowledges.
And, maybe, you wouldn't even love me...

(Marina Tzvetaeva, December 10, 1916)