“This land, although not my native land,Will be remembered forever.And the sea's lightly iced,Unsalty water.The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,The air is heady, like wine,And the rosy body of the pinesIs naked in the sunset hour.And the sunset itself on such waves of etherThat I just can't comprehendWhether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,Or the mystery of mysteries in me again.”

“A land not mine, stillforever memorable,the waters of its oceanchill and fresh.Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk,and the air drunk, like wine,late sun lays barethe rosy limbs of the pinetrees.Sunset in the ethereal waves:I cannot tell if the dayis ending, or the world, or ifthe secret of secrets is inside me again.”

“The word landed with a stony thud Onto my still-beating breast. Nevermind, I was prepared, I will manage with the rest. I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again. . . But how. The hot summer rustles Like a carnival outside my window; I have long had this premonition Of a bright day and a deserted house. ”

“I know beginnings, I know endings too,and life-in-death, and something elseI'd rather not recall just now.”

“Though you are three times more beautiful than angels,Though you are the sister of the river willows,I will kill you with my singing,Without spilling your blood on the ground.Not touching you with my hand,Not giving you one glance, I will stop loving you,But with your unimaginable groansI will finally slake my thirst.From her, who wandered the earth before me,Crueler than ice, more fiery than flame,From her, who still exists in the ether—From her you will set me free.”

“You invented me. There is no such earthly being,Such an earthly being there could never be.A doctor cannot cure, a poet cannot comfort—A shadowy apparition haunts you night and day.We met in an unbelievable year,When the world's strength was at an ebb,Everything withered by adversity,And only the graves were fresh. Without streetlights, the Neva's waves were black as pitch,Thick night enclosed me like a wall ...That's when my voice called out to you!Why it did—I still don't understand.And you came to me, as if guided by a starThat tragic autumn, steppingInto that irrevocably ruined house,From whence had flown a flock of burnt verse.”

“Flowers, cold from the dew,And autumn's approaching breath,I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,Which haven't faded yet.In their nights, fragrantly resinous,Entwined with delightful mystery,They will breathe in her springlikeExtraordinary beauty.But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,From her shing head they will flutterAnd fall—and before herThey will die, faintly fragrant still.And, impelled by faithful longing,My obedient gaze will feast upon them—With a reverent hand,Love will gather their rotting remains.”