«Yesterday at six / I stopped by Hay Square; / They were whipping a woman, / A young peasant, there. Not a sound from her breast, / Just the lash, playing, whistled... / And I said to my Muse: / "Look! It's your sister!"»
«What a night! How pure the air, / How silvery the slumbering leaf, / How black the shadow of the bankside willows, / How serenely the bay sleeps, / How still it is — nowhere a wave's sigh — / How full the breast is with silence! Midnight light, you're the same as day: / Except the ...»
«Like a bright sun a bonfire flares up in the forest, / And, contracting, the juniper creaks; / Like a crowded choir of drunken giants, / The fir-grove, reddened, sways. I forgot to think about the cold night, — / I was warmed to the very bone and heart; / My troubles wavered then vanish...»
«A whisper, timid breathing. / A nightingale's trill, / The silver and the rocking / Of a drowsy rill. Night's light, night's shades, / Shades without cease, / A series of magic changes / In a dear face, In smoky clouds a rose's purple...»