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Boris Pasternak - The Earth
Work rating: Low

Spring bursts violently

into Moscow houses.

Moths flutter about

crawl on summer hats,

and furs hide secretly.


Pots of wallflowers and stock

stand, in the window, just,

of wooden second storeys,

the rooms breathe liberty,

the smell of attics is dust.

 
The street is friends

with the bleary glass,

and white night and sunset

at one, by the river, pass.

 
In the passage you’ll know

what’s going on below

and April’s casual flow

of words with drops of thaw.

It’s a thousand stories veiled

in a human sadness,

and twilight along the fence

grows chill with the tale.

 
Outside, or snug at home

the same fire and hesitation:

everywhere air’s unsure.

The same cut willow twigs,

the same white swell of buds,

at crossroads, windows above,

in streets, and workshop-doors.

 
Then why does the far horizon weep

in mist, and the soil smell bitter?

After all, it’s my calling, surely,

to see no distance is lonely,

and past the town boundary,

to see that earth doesn’t suffer.

 
That’s why in early spring

we meet, my friends and I,

and our evenings are – farewell documents,

our gatherings are – testaments,

so the secret stream of suffering

may warm the cold of life.
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