Vladislav Khodasevich
- Not by my mother, but by the Tula peasant woman..., by Myrna Gwin (Miriam)
- Not My Mother..., by Peter Daniels
«Lads and lasses gathering, / Willow-boughs and tapers bring, / That they homeward bear. Warmly do the flamelets glow, / Wayfarers cross them as they go; / Spring-tide scents the air. Little breeze from far away, / Rain, O rain, with tiny spray, / Quench ye not the flame. For Palm Sund...»
«Ye lists and catalogues still haunt my brain; / Before me I behold you, face on face, / Near me afresh on this unpeopled plain. Your secrets long ago I held in chase! / By lamp-light o'er the catalogue I bent, / To probe for books that scarce had left a trace; To track down names; by sylla...»
«At night, as was our wont, we sought the café. Near, / Paris aglow and drunken in its rapture swayed. / I gaze upon your face; I strive from year to year / To pierce the veil and seek the scars new wounds have made. And like a rugged sailor you to me appear, / Who in those goodly times Mag...»
«Birds of wrath with their plumage of fire all bedight / Over heaven's white portals were borne in their flight; / On the marble the fiery refulgences flared. / Then swiftly o'er ocean the wanderers fared. But upon the pure marble, the threshold unstained, / There was something unwonted that...»