Boris Pasternak (10 February 1890 - 30 May 1960 / Moscow)
Poems of Boris Pasternak
|41.||I grew. Foul weather, dreams, forebodings...||4/3/2010|
|42.||I hang limp on the Creator's pen||4/3/2010|
|43.||I would go home again—to rooms...||4/3/2010|
|46.||In everything I seek to grasp...||4/3/2010|
|48.||In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva||4/3/2010|
|49.||In the Wood||4/3/2010|
|51.||It is not seemly to be famous...||4/3/2010|
|52.||It's spring, I leave a street where poplars...||4/3/2010|
|54.||Lessons of English||4/3/2010|
|58.||Mary Magdalene I||4/3/2010|
|59.||Mary Magdalene II||4/3/2010|
The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below.
Spring -- that corn-fed, husky milkmaid --
Is busy at her chores with never a letup.
The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia --
See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)
Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,
And the tines of pitchforks simply glow with health.