«Notte, strada, lampione, farmacia, / luce torbida e insensata. / Vivi pure ancora un quarto di secolo — / sarà sempre così. Non c'è via di scampo. Morirai — daccapo ricomincerai / e tutto si ripeterà come prima: / notte, il gelido incresparsi del canale, / strada, lampione, far»
«Here we’re all drunkards and whores, / Joylessly stuck together! / On the walls, birds and flowers / Pine for the clouds and air. The smoke from your black pipe / Makes strange vapours rise. / The skirt I wear is tight, / Revealing my slim thighs. Windows tightly closed: / Who’s ...»
«...And no-one came to meet me / Carrying a lantern. / The house quiet: my entry / By moonlight uncertain. Under the green lamp, / His smile was lifeless, / Whispering: "Cinderella, / How strange your voice..." Flames of the fire dying: / Wearily, cricket chirping. / Ah! Someone’s...»
«My imagination, obediently, / Conceives grey eyes. / In Tver, in my solitude, / It’s you I bitterly remember. Happily captive in another’s arms, / On the left bank of the Neva, / My famed contemporary, / You have all that you desired; You who told me: Enough, / Go now, quench you...»