«In the garden there were snatches of music / Wordless, melancholy. / The sharp fresh odors of the sea / Rose from oysters on cracked ice. He said to me, / "I am faithful friend", / And touched my dress: / Unlike an embrace / The touch of that hand. So one pets a cat or a bird / So ...»
«There’s nothing to be sad about. / Sadness is a crime, a prison. / A strange impression, I have risen / From the grey canvas like a sheet. / / Up-flying arms, with a bad break, / Tormented smile — I and the sitter / Had to become thus through the bitter / Hours of profligate giv...»
«Nobody came to meet me / with a lantern, / Had to find my way up / the steps by weak moonlight / / And there he was, under / the green lamp, and / With a corpse’s smile / he whispered, "Your voice / / Is strange Cinderella…" / Fire dying in the hearth, / Cricket chirpin...»
«The road by the seaside garden darkens, / The lights are a fresh yellow. / I’m at peace; but please, don’t talk / To me about him. / You’re kind and loyal, we’ll be friends… / Walk, kiss, and be old… / Coming days will fly over us, / Lightly, like snowy stars. »