to avgusta miklashevskaya:

You’re as simple as all of them, as ten thousand more in Russia. And you know of the lonely dawn and the deep-blue autumn’s shudder.

My heart’s in a pretty mess, and stupid thoughts come thronging. Your clear-cut ikon face I’ve seen in Ryazan shrines hanging.

These ikons I’ve reviled, a rake’s row and rudeness revering, now there suddenly spring to mind song-words soft and endearing.

I’ve no wish to fly to the heights, too much the body’s needing. How is it your name vibrates as the ‘August’ cool evening?

I’m not beggarly, sorry or mean nor by passion’s flame made silly and from childhood have known how to please the dogs and the Steppeland fillies.

So I’ve not kept myself intact for you or for her or for that one for a lunatic poet’s heart is of mirthless joy a token.

In your slant eyes I’m sinking down as in leaves, with sadness utter… you’re as simple as all of them as ten thousand more in Russia.