«I Smell of burning. The marshes are singeing / For four weeks, with the peat bog dried up. / And today, even birds have quit singing / And the aspen that shivered has stopped. God, Himself, sees the sun with dismay, / And since Easter, the drought has spread. / And a one-legged stranger ...»
«That voice, with silence disputing, / Has triumphed a little bit more. / Like sorrow or song in me brooding / Is the winter before the war. It was whiter than Smolny Cathedral, / More mysterious than Summer Garden. / Now, we look back at it, so ethereal, / With ultimate longing, downtro...»
«We never quite learned to part, — / We wander slowly, side by side. / Outside, it’s starting to get dark, / I’m silent, — you’re preoccupied. We’ll enter a church and see / Baptisms, marriages, mass. / A minute later, we’ll leave… / Why is everything different with us? ...»
«There the Archangel Michael / Has enrolled him in his host. / N. Gumilev. You won’t hear from him any longer, / No more letters to save. / In the fire-embraced, doleful Poland, / You won’t find his grave. Let your soul grow calm and composed, / No more loss in this war: / He’s ...»