«Peace-loving Stassen who appears so pious / Is most inflammable and could well fry us. / He wears an olive branch in his lapel. / But sits on bombs like some hen doing well / In her present condition. Still he can / Consider any disarmament plan.»
«We enter — and our shocked hearts shudder... Cruel / Death, desolation, emptiness yawn here... / Where are the swans... and brooks? Where are the muses? / The beauty that from childhood we’ve held dear? Where are the gardeners? Where are the people / Who used to cherish peaceful parks l...»
«...I won’t give my enemies that consolation: / My death — hypocritically to deplore. / The hook where I’d hang myself is not yet driven, / Not yet forged. Not dug out from the earth as ore. / I’ll rise over all of my bottomless life, / The terrors, the whole iron anguish I knew. / ...»
«As a sad look I fancy autumn. / On a serene and misty day / To woods I often choose my way / And gratified there stay / Alone in pleasant mood begotten. / Beneath a pine in a land of needles, / While tasting lazily a berry, / I muse on matters sad and merry / And listen to wood...»