Boris Pasternak Poems
|81.||I would go home again—to rooms...||4/3/2010|
|82.||I hang limp on the Creator's pen||4/3/2010|
|83.||I grew. Foul weather, dreams, forebodings...||4/3/2010|
|84.||Humble home. But rum, and charcoal...||4/3/2010|
|85.||How few are we. Probably three...||4/3/2010|
|87.||Here—now—our age of socialism!...||4/3/2010|
|88.||Here will be echoes in the mountains...||4/3/2010|
|89.||Here a riddle has drawn a strange nailmark||4/3/2010|
|92.||From early dawn the thirtieth of April...||4/3/2010|
|93.||From A Poem||4/3/2010|
|100.||Do not fret, do not cry, do not tax...||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.