«There are words whose breath is like a flower: / So tender and whitely disquieting; but / Among them there is nothing sadder or / Tenderer than you, impossible. Without knowing you, I had already loved / In you those sounds sunk into velvet: / The shining of graves appeared to me and. / ...»
«To A. N. Annenskaya Evening. The green nursery with / Its low ceiling, the boring / German book, Nurse in / Spectacles, with her stocking. It is as though I could see the / Novel-yellow, in a cheap / Edition... I might even read the / Title if it were not for this fog. You were still ...»
«Links not unchained, / Unsubdued shadow — / And oblivion, but oblivion / Like a soft autumn day. Like noon’s sun in a temple / Through the colored pattern of / The glass, with a wave covered / With leaves, but burning... To us-reproaches; to us — / Weariness; but oblivion will ...»
«To O. P. Khmara-Barshchevskaya Among the shadows the spots of sunlight are / Extinguished on the sand in the garden that has / Begun to dream. Everything in you is so sweetly / Incomprehensible, but I remember your: “I will come.” Black smoke, but you are airier than smoke, / You are t...»