«My fingers slipped out of your hands. / You’re walking away with a frown. / Look how the birch trees have strewn / red leaves with the rain of their blood. Pale autumn, cold autumn has spread / itself over us, reaching up high. / A barren plain stretching around us / breathes a cloud ...»
«To Z. N. Gippius Enough’s enough: don’t wait, don’t hope; / My wretched people scatter! / Fall into space and shatter, / Year upon tormented year. Beggarly, will-less age. / Permit me, oh my motherland. / To sob in your damp fatuous freedom / To weep amid your empty steppes: — ...»
«He loved these three things / White peacocks, evening songs, / And worn-out maps of America. / No crying of children, / No raspberry tea, / No women's hysterics… / I was married to him.»
«I wrung my hands under my dark veil… / "Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" / — Because I have made my loved one drunk / with an astringent sadness. I’ll never forget. He went out, reeling; / his mouth was twisted, desolate . . . / I ran downstairs, not touching the banister...»