«In the darkness and still of a mysterious night / I see a fond and welcoming spark, / From the chorus of spheres, familiar eyes / Shine upon a grave forgotten in the steppe. The grass has faded, the desert is grim, / A lonely tomb dreams an orphan's dream, / And only in the sky, like an e...»
«I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid. — With effort / I reach my hands out and I call / For help. Yes, I recall the tortures / Of dying. — Yes, this is no dream! — / And without effort, like a spider web / I push aside my casket's rotting wood And stand. How bright the winter light appea...»
«When you were reading those tormented lines / In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams / And passion's fatal torrents rear up, — / Didn't you recall a single thing? I can't believe it! That night on the steppe / When, in the midnight mist a premature dawn, / Transpa...»
«While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling / Where, teasing my imagination, / A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, / And spins just like a ghostly shadow. Within the flicker there's a trace of autumn sunset: / As if, above the rooftop and the garden, / Unable to fly off, afraid...»