«Some things succeed, and some things fail; / everything’s nonsense that passes away... But even so this reddish-brown grass / which grows by a gate in the fence will last. ...If Russian speech has the power to go / back to the land where the Neva flows — / from Paris I send these muddl...»
«Will I ever forget it, that mythical night: / in the blaze of the setting sun / an abyss divided the sky in two / and the street lamps came on one by one. I sat in a crowd by the window while somewhere / an orchestra sang about love; / I sent you a rose in a glass of champagne / as gold...»
«Good is the wine that is in love with us, / and good is bread, our generous friend; / and good the woman who brings us torment / yet yields her sweetness to us in the end. But what are we to do with sunset fires? / With joys that can’t be eaten, drunk or kissed? / And what are we to do ...»
«Fine is the wine that is in love with us, / The goodly bread we wait for from the oven, / And woman whom we have possessed, at last, / After we've suffered under yoke her own. But what to do if a red sunset freezes / Above a sky that's drowning in cold, / Where there is silence and uneart...»