«Tousle-haired star / hurrying into nothing / out of a crazy nowhere, / a lone sheep among the starry horde, / into those golden flocks rushing / like jealousy you overwhelm me, / star of the ancients, shaggy star!»
«Soul, scorning all measure / Singer of heresy, martyr / longing for the whip’s lashing. / Soul, you greet your assassin / like a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis, / nor can you brook this offense: / that wizards are not still burnt. / Smoking under your hair shirt / like a resina...»
«How they flare up, a tinder bonfire / on the plaza of night, our holy convictions! / Before the usurping edict of tenderness / what are our heroes, our marble traditions? How solemnly fall the lofty antiques / one by one, and the modes of nobility, / and, oh, our ancestral jewels under / ...»
«2 No more so rich are the gifts of the Gods; / even the river is different now. / Through wide and widening sunset gates / the doves of Venus fly away. And I, stretched out on the cooling sand, / soon into numberless days go forth. / Like a snake, looking back at his old bright skin — ...»