Boris Pasternak Poems

I quivered. I flared up, and then was extinguished.
I shook. I had made a proposal - but late,
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To give this book a dedication
The desert sickened,
And lions roared, and dawns of tigers
Took hold of Kipling.
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Once, in times forgotten,
In a fairy place,
Through the steppe, a rider
Made his way apace.
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I am finished, but you live on.
And the wind, crying and moaning,
rocks the house and the clearing,
not each pine alone,
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This winter I was outside Moscow,
But when the time for work came round,
Through the blizzard, biting frost and snow,
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When Desdemona sang a ditty-
In her last hours among the living-
It wasn't love that she lamented,
And not her star-she mourned a willow.
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What is the matter with the landscape?
Familiar landmarks are not there.
Ploughed fields, like squares upon a chessboard,
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How lovely those journeys into quiet!
Boundless the steppe, like a seascape,
ants rustle, and the feather-grass sighs,
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The snow will dust the roadway,
And load the roofs still more.
I'll stretch my legs a little:
You're there outside the door.
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All morning high up on the eaves
Above your window
A dove kept cooing.
Like shirtsleeves The boughs seemed frayed.
...