«Yes, I had loved those meetings of the nights — / Upon small table a glass filled with ice, / Above black coffee thick and smelly steam, / From the red heater heavy winter heat, / The stinging mirth of literary parable / And first look of the friend, helpless and terrible.»
«Do not send a dove in my direction, / Do not write tumultuous notes at all, / Do not fan my face with the March breeze. / I have now entered a green heaven, / Where there's calm for body and for soul / Underneath the shady maple trees. And from here I can see a town, / Booths and barrac...»
«Has my fate really been so altered, / Or is this game truly truly over? / Where are winters, when I fell asleep / In the morning in the sixth hour? In a new way, severely and calmly, / I now live on the wild shore. / I can no longer pronounce / The tender or idle word. I can't believe ...»
«Like a white stone at bottom of the well, / One memory, one memory lies in me. / I cannot and I do not want to struggle, / It is true joy and it is suffering. I think that anyone who looks into my / Eyes immediately will see him. / More sad and pensive he will then become / That heard...»