«Not with the proud kind of beauty / She charms the animated youth, / And she doesn't drag behind her booty — / The crowd of her slaves, confused. Her waist isn't one of any goddess, / Her breast does not rise like sea waves, / And nobody calls her gorgeous, / While falling on his knee...»
«No, not with you I fell in love so fast, / And not for me your beauty is succeeding; / I love in you my suffering preceding, / And youth of mine, that perished in the past. And when sometimes my look is long and hard, / And penetrates your eyes of high perfection; / I'm busy with a secret...»
«No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet, / Another choice for the sacred dole, / Like him — a persecuted soul, / But only of the Russian set. / I early start and end the whole, / And will not win the future days; / Like in an ocean, in my soul, / A cargo of lost hopes stays. / Who, oh, my oce...»
«No matter who you are, my neighbor, always sad, / I like you, yet, as my young years’ friend — / My comrade by a mischance-law — / Though the fate’s manipulative hand / Divided us for time without end, / Now by wall, then — by the unknown. When half-light of the everyday sunris...»