«Sonnet I am set up for thirty years so as to / Live painfully breaking up the rays / From ghostly planets into “yes” and / “No,” into “ah!” and “baa.” So as to live worrying and grieving / Over what is already not there... / And I should certainly be a poet / If I could...»
«I love the fading of an echo after / The furious troika in the forest; / After scintillating, impetuous / Laughter I like a spell of weariness. On a winter morning I love over me the / Lilac-colored outpouring of semi-darkness. / And, where the sun was burning in spring. / Only the pink...»
«The forest is misted in sparklings, / In the shadows faces are changing. / Into the skies’ blue hermitage / Chimings are departing to pray... Chimings, take me! My heart / Is so weak and orphaned... / Dust from the day’s sparkling teases / With the possibility of peace... What does...»
«. . . . . / It has not struck four... but the pale luminary / Has hardly gilded the domes above us, and in the / Faded steppe the river is misty; so softly have the / Clouds been moving above us, and their movement / Concealed so much tenderness (clouds which have / Forgotten the poison ...»