«Here’s a young girl, barely in bloom, / Who still does not lower her eyes, nor blush, / As I approach she gazes at me / With her dark impenetrable glance. / And if I had my way, I’d spend my whole life in Settignano, / Beside the wind-weathered stone of Septimus Severus. / I’d look...»
«That girl there, little more than a child, / Neither blushes, nor yet casts down her eyes, / But, as she draws nearer, / Observes me with a dark, inscrutable stare. / Had I the fancy for it, / I’d spend the rest of my days in Settignano; / I’d sit by the wind-torn stone of Septimus S...»
«Panmongolism! The word’s barbaric, / Yet still falls sweetly on my ear, / As if it were a mighty portent / Of God’s great destiny for man. When, in Byzantium’s corruption, / The sacred altars’ fire grew cold, / And the Messiah was abjured / By priest and people, prince and tsar,...»
«Forgotten, cold, my dust will fall asleep / while you are entering your life's sweet May. / One moment then, with magnanimity, / read through these verses that once came to me. And with a maiden's keen and thoughtful heart / you'll understand my words' wild ecstasy, / and why it was I oft...»