«Fumbling in black memory you’ll find / Those same long gloves, / A Petersburg night. And the air, / Close and sweet, of some dark box. And a wind from the gulf. And there, / Between the lines, the cries on-stage, / Blok smiling scornfully at you, / He, the tragic tenor of his age. »
«It’s not sombre or funereal, / It’s nearly as transparent as smoke, / This newlywed’s obsolete / Filmy, black and white hat. / And the aquiline profile beneath, / The satin of Parisian bangs, / And an eye, oblong and green, / And an eye, sharp and intense.»
«And it seemed to me those fires / Were about me till dawn. / And I never learnt — / The colour of those eyes. / Everything was trembling, singing; / Were you my friend or enemy, / And winter was it, or summer? »
«(Cadro de V. Vasnetsov) Nun espello de augas infinitas, / Vestida de púrpura co solpor, / Profetiza e canta ela, / Sen forza para lalzar as súas ás turbadas... / Profetiza o xugo dos temibles tártaros, / Profetiza execucións sanguentas, / O tremor da terra, a fame e o lume, / O p...»