«He is gone — I cannot eat: / The taste — of stale bread. / All — chalk. / Anything I am drawn to. ...I am the bread that was / And the snow that was. / And the snow was not white / And the bread was unloved.»
«— Your years — Mountain, / Your time — Tsars. / Fool! love — Old. / — Others! In love — Old: Monsters, old roots, / Stone altars / Old Cretans, old / Aging warriors...»
«For my poems, written so young / I’d not dreamed I was a poet, / Like drops from the fountain flung, / Like sparks from a rocket, That burst into the realm of true / Sleep, and incense, like tiny demons, / For my poems about death and youth, / — For my unread sermons! — Scattered...»
«Walking, you’re just like me, / Your eyes are on the ground. / I used to lower mine, you see. / Stop passer-by, at this mound! When you’ve picked a cluster / Of buttercups, poppies, a few — / Read, I was named Marina, / And how old I was, too. Don’t think, this is – a grave, ...»