Sad that our finest aspiration Our freshest dreams and meditations, In swift succession should decay, Like Autumn leaves that rot away.

Moscow... how many strains are fusing in that one sound, for Russian hearts! what store of riches it imparts!

Pimen [writing in front of a sacred lamp]: One more, the final record, and my annals Are ended, and fulfilled the duty laid By God on me a sinner. Not in vain …

The clock of doom had struck as fated; the poet, without a sound, let fall his pistol on the ground.

Rust rust rust in the engines of love and time

The rock-cheeks have red fire-stains. But the place was maiden, no previous Building, no neighbors, nothing but the elements, Rock, wind, and sea; in moon-stru…

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down. It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses. It is not the streets that exist. It is the…