«To the Prophet Jeremiah 1 I’m not scared of hell, / Nor the rain of spears and arrows, — / I read but one book of the Bible, / The Prophet Esenin, Sergei’s. When my time draws nigh, / I fear no cracking whips. / The body, Christ’s body, / Dribbles spit from its lips. I don’...»
«Farewell, old chap, farewell. / You are lodged in my breast, my dear. / The parting foretold and fateful / Bodes a meeting yet to appear. Old chap, no hand, no word, / On your brow, no gloom, no grief, — / In this life, nothing new, to have died, / But of course, nothing new, to live.»
«Night raises its shroud — / And the waves murmur, as foes. / I hear, daughter of Lordly Abysses, / Your immortal steps!.. Departed! Is it not how all of you / Step across the threshold / Of atrocious elements? And, as lions, / They lie at your feet — And lick your elongated shroudâ...»
«To A. N. Chebotarevsky Hilly groves, caved with crimson, / Blue, scowling mountains far away… / In the back-country, on refined thorns, /     Climbs the wild hop. An errant ray of silvery light… / As in a coffin, the Earth gets colder / And clears off with the exuberant grief...»