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Boris Pasternak - Spring
Work rating: Low

How many sticky buds, candle ends

sprout from the branches! Steaming

April. Puberty sweats from the park,

and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.

 
A noose of feathered throats grips

the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,

netted, like a gladiatorial organ,

it groans steel-piped sonatas here.

 
Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,

among green stickiness drenched,

I’ll consent, by the sopping wood

of a green-stained garden bench.

 
Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,

suck up the gullies and clouds,

Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out

to make the parched sheets flower.
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