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.
These days -- these days, and these nights also!
With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon,
With icicles (cachectic!) hanging on to gables,
And with the chattering of rills that never sleep!
All doors are flung open -- in stable and in cowbarn;
Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow;
And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter--
The pile of manure -- is pungent with ozone.
Boris Pasternak's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (March by Boris Pasternak )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Casey Renee Kiser
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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