«From The Paris Epigrams Those who mourn the faith of Esus, / Those who summon into the land of kings: / Gauls, Gauls, call / The outlandish mothers!»
«To N. N. Russov / / He ran. Bid farewell to the guards, / The earth purpled in the forest. / He skulked above the eternal calm, / Slaking ruthless vengeance. / / He skulked, lifeless staff / In cold clenching hand. / He stood on the Volga slopes / And dropped to the dear river....»
«My lips approaching / Your lips, / Mysteries happening again, / And the world like a temple. We, like priests, / Create the rite. / Sternly in the great abode, / Words resound. Angels, falling prostrate, / Sing the tropa...»
«Who is it singing, a dream, nature, / The sky — the tender sleep of reeds? / Every leaf cast in a trill, / Light and shadow chiming in April, — / Wind, only you, the most unskilled, / Blow into the copper pipe further off. The old hymn! The worldly chorus! / In days, when the mammot...»