Boris Pasternak: Все стихи поэта

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Do not fret, do not cry, do not tax

Your last strength, and your heart do not torture.

You're alive, you're inside me, intact,

As a buttress, a friend, an adventure.

I've no fear of standing exposed

As a fraud in my faith in the future.

It's not life, not a union of souls

We are breaking off, but a hoax mutual.

by Boris Pasternak

To Anna Akhmatova

I think I can call on words

that will last: you are there.

But if I can’t, no matter –

I’ll persist, I won’t care.

I hear the muttering of wet roofs,

pale eclogues from stones and kerb.

From the opening lines, that city,

by Boris Pasternak

Unique Days

How I remember solstice days

Through many winters long completed!

Each unrepeatable, unique,

And each one countless times repeated.

Of all these days, these only days,

When one rejoiced in the impression

That time had stopped, there grew in years

An unforgettable succession.

by Boris Pasternak

Definition of Creative Art

With shirt wide open at the collar,

Maned as Beethoven's bust, it stands;

Our conscience, dreams, the night and love,

Are as chessmen covered by its hands.

And one black king upon the board:

In sadness and in rage, forthright

It brings the day of doom.-Against

The pawn it brings the mounted knight.

by Boris Pasternak

Three Variants

When in front of you hangs the day with its

Smallest detail-fine or crude-

The intensely hot cracking squirrel-sounds

Do not cease in the resinous wood.

The high line of pine-trees stands asleep,

Drinking in and storing strength,

And the wood is peeling and drip by drip

by Boris Pasternak

Thunderstorm, Instantaneous Forever

After this the halt and summer

Parted company; and taking

Off his cap at night the thunder

Took a hundred blinding stills.

Lilac clusters faded; plucking

Off an armful of new lightnings,

From the field he tried to throw them

At the mansion in the hills.

by Boris Pasternak

Change

I used to glorify the poor,

Not simply lofty views expressing:

Their lives alone, I felt, were true,

Devoid of pomp and window-dressing.

No stranger to the manor house,

Its finery and lordly tenor,

I was a friend of down-and-outs,

And shunned the idly sponging manner.

by Boris Pasternak

Intoxication

Under osiers with ivy ingrown

We are trying to hide from bad weather.

I am clasping your arms in my own,

In one cloak we are huddled together.

I was wrong. Not with ivy-leaves bound,

But with hops overgrown is the willow.

Well then, let us spread out on the ground

This our cloak as a sheet and a pillow.

by Boris Pasternak

White Night

I keep thinking of times that are long past,

Of a house in the Petersburg Quarter.

You had come from the steppeland Kursk Province,

Of a none-too-rich mother the daughter.

You were nice, you had many admirers.

On that distant white night we were sitting

On your window-sill, looking from high on

On the phantom-like scene of the city.

by Boris Pasternak

Spring (Fragment 3)

Is it only dirt you notice?

Does the thaw not catch your glance?

As a dapple-grey fine stallion

Does it not through ditches dance?

Is it only birds that chatter

In the blueness of the skies,

Sipping through the straws of sunrays

Lemon liturgies on ice?

by Boris Pasternak

God's World

Thin as hair are the shadows of sunset

When they follow drawn-out every tree.

On the road through the forest the post-girl

Hands a parcel and letters to me.

By the trail of the cats and the foxes,

By the foxes' and by the cats' trail,

I return with a bundle of letters

To the house where my joy will prevail.

by Boris Pasternak

Sultry Night

It drizzled, but not even grasses

Would bend within the bag of storm;

Dust only gulped its rain in pellets,

The iron roof-in powder form.

The village did not hope for healing.

Deep as a swoon the poppies yearned

Among the rye in inflammation,

And God in fever tossed and turned.

by Boris Pasternak