«No todos saben cantar, / no todos pueden ser manzana / y rodar a los pies de los demás. Esta es la suprema confesión / que puede hacer un granuja. Ando intencionalmente despeinado / con la cabeza como una lámpara a petróleo. / Me gusta iluminar entre tinieblas / el deshojado otoño...»
«My friend, my friend / I am so very sick! / I myself don’t know from where this pain took hold / Whether the wind whistles / Over the empty and unpeopled field / Or whether, like a grove in September / Alcohol overthrows my brains My head flaps its ears / Like a bird flaps its wings...»
«Hey there, Russia, mother country, / Cottages in icon guise... / Never-ending land of wonder, / Vistas blue that suck the eyes. Like a passing holy pilgrim / On your fields I turn my gaze, / On the outskirts of poor villages / Rustling poplars pine and fade. Smelling of sweet honey and...»
«To L. I. Kashina Head of green tresses / And maiden breast, / Why on the pond, birch, / Your gaze do you rest? / What does the wind whisper, / Sand intone? / In your braid-boughs will you / Set a moon-comb? / Your secret wood-thoughts / Disclose to me! / I love your sad tones / ...»