«On slow and smoky fire thou burn'st and art consuméd, / Oh, thou, my soul. / On slow and smoky fire thou burn'st and art consuméd, / With hidden dole. Thou droopest like Sebastian, pierced with pointed arrows, / ...»
«"Trample their Paradise, Attila!" / — Vyacheslav Ivanov. Where do you stray, heavy Huns, / Who weigh on the world like a cloud? / Far, under Asian suns, / Your cast-iron tread is loud. Swoop down in a drunken horde / From your dark encampments, rise / In a tide of crimson poured / ...»
«Through tannic steam I catch a glimpse of Fuji: / Against a yellow sky volcanic gold / A saucer narrows nature very strangely, / In shallow ripples lovely to behold. / The clouds, like little webs, like spider legs, / Are pierced by sun no bigger than a mote, / And bird-fish, ...»
«To fling slant links / into mirror / sphere space, — / maniacal parabolas, / jingling, curl up a / stubbled raceme. Tribal, zodiacal, / fields flame, / ether bubbles, / but all intersects / yield the still- / lettered scheme / of your name!»