Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!
by Boris Pasternak
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.