«Thought, yet more thought! Poor artist of the word, / thought’s priest! For you there can be no forgetting; / it’s all here, here are people and the world / and death and life and truth without a veil. / Ah! Chisel, cello, brush, happy the man / drawn to you by his senses, going no fur...»
«No, I’m not Byron, I’m unknown; / I am, like him, a chosen one, / an exile hounded by this world — / only I bear a Russian soul. / An early start, an early end — / little indeed will I complete; / within my heart, as in a sea, / lie shattered hopes — a sunken load. / Grim ...»
«I'm not Byron, I've got another mind, / Outcast by people, alone, / I lost my roots and family and home, / I've got my soul of a Russian kind. / I earlier began my own breath / And soon I'll finish all my days, / My mind will make a little bit; / Deep in my heart a load lays / Of bro...»
«A year will come — of Russia’s blackest dread; / then will the crown fall from the royal head, / the throne of tsars will perish in the mud, / the food of many will be death and blood; / both wife and babe will vainly seek the law: / it will not shield the victims any more; / the put...»