«Describing circle after circle, / The wheeling kite looks down upon / A dream-like, empty meadow. A mother / Grieves in the cabin for her son: / “Here, suck this breast, here, take this bread. / Grow up, be humble, trust in God.” The ages pass, endless war rages, / Revolt flares, vi...»
«Over the empty fields a black kite hovers, / And circle after circle smoothly weaves. / In the poor hut, over her son in the cradle / A mother grieves: / “There, suck my brest: there grow and take our bread, / And learn to bear your cross and bow your head.” Time passes. War returns. ...»
«1. Black night. / White snow. / The wind, the wind! / Impossible to stay on your feet. / The wind, the wind! / Blowing across God’s world! The wind swirls round / The clean, white snow. / Under the snow — there’s ice. / It’s sl...»
«With scorning laughter at a fellow writer, / In a chorus the Russian scribes / With name of aristocrat me chide: / Just look, if please you . . . nonsense what! / Court Coachman not I, nor assessor, / Nor am I nobleman by cross; / No academician, nor professor, / I’m simply of Russia...»