«Between two — a hot fur! A Hand — hot fluff! / Circling — around the head. / But under the fur — bliss, under the fluff / Gaga — you tremble! Even the goddess of the thousands / — In the nests of dark stars — / No matter how you rotate, how gently / — Ach! — It ...»
«He is gone — I cannot eat: / The taste — of stale bread. / All — chalk. / Anything I am drawn to. ...I am the bread that was / And the snow that was. / And the snow was not white / And the bread was unloved.»
«— Your years — Mountain, / Your time — Tsars. / Fool! love — Old. / — Others! In love — Old: Monsters, old roots, / Stone altars / Old Cretans, old / Aging warriors...»
«For my poems, written so young / I’d not dreamed I was a poet, / Like drops from the fountain flung, / Like sparks from a rocket, That burst into the realm of true / Sleep, and incense, like tiny demons, / For my poems about death and youth, / — For my unread sermons! — Scattered...»