«My monastery, where I’m badly pining, / Is granite, melted by the burning mind. / I’m strangled and blinded under this heat, lying, / And leave it, trying a new cell to find… There’ll be still heat, but one that’s always warming. / The bloody ball will melt my brain to ash, / Iâ...»
«My sweet friend, and in this quiet home, / Beats a fever me, the same. / I can’t find a place in quiet home / By its always peaceful flame! Voices sing, a blizzard calls, I hear, / Comfort is my cross... / E’en behind your shoulders, oh my dear, / Someone’s eyes wait for me close!...»
«Night, streets, the lantern, the drugstore, / The meaningless and dusky light. / A quarter of the century more — / All fall the same into your sight! You died — as it was before — / You have the former way to start: / The streets, the lantern, the drugstore, / Swell of the canal ...»
«The river stretched. It flows, idly grieves, / And washes both banks. / In steppe, above light clay of cliffs / Rinks mourn in ranks. O Russia! Dear wife! With clearness and pain / We see the lengthy way! / It sent an arrow of ancient Tartar reign — / In breast it lay. The way throug...»