«Today, around eight, dashing through / Big Lubanka straight ahead, / Like bullet, like snowball, / Somewhere rushed the sled. Already the laughter rang... / I froze as I peered: / Red down of the hair / And somebody tall was near! We were with another, and opened / Another sled route...»
«Just like a young plant sprout / The neck is high and free. / Who'll tell the name, who — years, / Who — place, who — century? The curve of not bright lips / Is capricious and wan, / But blinding is the terraced / Forehead of Beethoven. Clean to endearment / Is the molten ova...»
«You pass me by as you stroll, / I don't touch your hand at all. / But my angst is eternal yet, / That you be the first I met. Heart said "Darling!" out of control, / I forgave you it all, / Knowing nothing — not even the name! / Love me, love me, I exclaim. From the curve of your lip...»
«Under sun the eyes are burning, / Day's not equal day. / I tell you for that occasion / If I would betray: Whose lips I had not been kissing / In the hour of love, / To whom I upon black midnight / Did not dreadfully vow — To live, like a flower blooms, like / Mother tells a child...»