«Why would your sublime pencil draw / The features of my negroid face? / Though meant for future eyes, the devil / Has advocates for its disgrace. Draw Miss Olénina instead. / When inspiration flames the heart, / Nothing but youth and beauty ever / Should summon genius to art.»
«How many of earth’s oceans I’ve sailed, oceans / ancient, gay, foam-covered; / how many matchless nights and days / have gone guiding caravans across the steppes... How we laughed, then, / my Muse and I, free... / Rhymes flew together like birds, / so many — I don’t dare remembe...»
«In that magic forest, towering trees / Unexpectedly come forward from the haze. Out of the earth, roots spring from other roots, / Like the arms of the dwellers of burial vaults. Under the cover of the blazing autumn leaves / Lonesome giants, trolls, and lions used to live. Here sailors ...»
«White trunks / were stark, suddenly, against the haze, Roots wound up out of the ground / like corpses’ arms. The leaves’ bright fire / hid giants, dwarves, lions; Fishermen saw in the sand / the print of a six-fingered hand. No French noble, no knight of the Round Table, / ever wa...»