Sparrow Hills

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.

by Boris Pasternak

Other poems of PASTERNAK (122)

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