«We'll be buried and modest grave mounds / Will be soon overgrown with grass, / Nothing but the remote vague sounds / Of the rains there above 'll bother us. No questions, no answers, we got 'em, / And awaken from lazy grave dream / We're aware, if 'tis quiet, then it's autumn, / ...»
«Why, pretty gal, are you hexing about / With eyes and shoulders, in turn? / Thus you'll excite even me, no doubt, / Though, I don't feel concern. Yet, for this dangerous game men stay ready, / Many you will captivate / Until you turn from a passionate lady / Into good ...»
«Snow-clad is the plain, and the moon is white / Covered with a shroud is my country side. / Birches dressed in white are crying, as I see. / Who is dead, I wonder? Is it really me?»
«Plains are in a shroud, / Moon above is white, / Everywhere about / Snow in Moon's light. And birch-trees stay sad, / Mournful, and so shy. / Who is lost? Who 's dead? / Is it really I?»