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Boris Pasternak - Sparrow Hills
Work rating: Medium

Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!

Summer’s stream won’t run for ever.

We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar

night after night, in a dusty fever.

 

I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!

No wave will lift its hands to the stars.

They say – who believes? No face in the leaves,

no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.

 

Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.

It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?

See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,

fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.

 

Here, the city’s trolley-lines end.

Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees.

Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches,

the glade running off, sliding on leaves.

 

Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,

‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood.

So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,

So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.
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