Boris Pasternak Poems

There'll be no one in the house
Save for twilight. All alone,
Winter's day seen in the space that's
Made by curtains left undrawn.
...

O had I known that thus it happens,
When first I started, that at will
Your lines with blood in them destroy you,
...

My boat throbbed in the drowsy depths,
willows bowed, kissing collarbones,
elbows and rowlocks – oh wait, yes,
...

In Spasskoe, unforgettable September sheds its leaves.
Isn’t it time to close up the summer-house?
...

1

Who’ll be honoured and praised,
who’ll be dead, and abused,
...

I am no more but you live on,
And the wind, whining and complaining,
Is shaking house and forest, straining
Not single fir trees one by one
...

From early morning-nonsense
With tubs and troughs and strain,
With dampness in the evening
And sunsets in the rain.
...

By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered;
On his breast it slept…
From the swing, from the garden, helter-skelter,
...

Sometime at a concert hall, in recollection,
A Brahms intermezzo will wound me-I'll start,
Remember that summer, the flowerbed garden,
...

Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears,
Splashed over carriages' varnish, trees' tremble.
Full moon. The musicians are picking their way
...