«The street awakens. She looks, exhausted / With the mute windows’ sullen eyes, / On sleepy faces, red from the cold, / That with thoughts chase the stubborn sleep away. The blackened trees with rime are covered — / With trace mysterious of the night’s fun, / In gleaming brocade sad ...»
«In the old Strauss waltz for the first time / We had listened to your quiet call, / Since then all the living things are alien / And the knocking of the clock consoles. We, like you, are gladly greeting sunsets, / And are drunk on nearness of the end. / All, with which on better nights we...»
«This grief for homeland! It’s despair / And hopelessness of daily worry! / I’m equally indifferent where / — Alone, entirely and wholly, — I am, which way I slowly stagger, / Back from the market, walking homeward, / Into a home, that like a barrack, / Still doesn’t know that ...»
«O, tears that in eyes freeze! / The cry of love and pain! / My Chekhia’s in tears! / In blood is all my Spain! / O, mountain of black, / You shaded all the world! / It’s time to return back / My ticket to the God. Yes, I refuse to be / In Bedlam of non-men. / Yes, I refuse to ...»