And you inherit the green
of vanquished gardens
and the motionless blue of fallen skies,
You inherit the autumns, folded like festive clothing
in the memories of poets; and all the winters,
like abandoned fields, bequeath you their quietness.
You inherit Venice, Kazan, and Rome.
Florence will be yours, and Pisa's cathedral,
Moscow with bells like memories,
Sounds will be yours, of string and brass and reed,
and sometimes the songs will seem
to come from inside you.
And painters paint their pictures only
that the world, so transient as you made it,
can be given back to you,
to last forever.