«Just like a young plant sprout / The neck is high and free. / Who'll tell the name, who — years, / Who — place, who — century? The curve of not bright lips / Is capricious and wan, / But blinding is the terraced / Forehead of Beethoven. Clean to endearment / Is the molten ova...»
«You pass me by as you stroll, / I don't touch your hand at all. / But my angst is eternal yet, / That you be the first I met. Heart said "Darling!" out of control, / I forgave you it all, / Knowing nothing — not even the name! / Love me, love me, I exclaim. From the curve of your lip...»
«Under sun the eyes are burning, / Day's not equal day. / I tell you for that occasion / If I would betray: Whose lips I had not been kissing / In the hour of love, / To whom I upon black midnight / Did not dreadfully vow — To live, like a flower blooms, like / Mother tells a child...»
«I'll repeat in hour of parting / When love comes to end / That I loved, yes that I loved truly / Your masterful hands And the eyes — somebody isn't / Gifted with a glance! — / Those that answer are demanding / For a look every chance. You with your thrice-cursed passion — / Go...»