Boris Pasternak

Sparrow Hills

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My kisses across your breast, like water from a jug!
They'll have an end, and soon, our days of summer heat.
Nor shall we every night rise up in trailing dust
The hurdy-gurdy's bellow, stamp and drag our feet.

I've heard about old age. What ominous forebodings!
That no wave will lift again to the stars its hands,
That waters will speak no more; no god in the woods;
No heart within the pools; no life in meadowlands.

O rouse your soul! This frenzied day is yours to have!
It is the world's midday. Why don't you use your eyes?
Look, there's thought upon high hills in seething bubbles
Of heat, woodpeckers, cones and needles, clouds and skies.

Here tracks of city trolleys stop, and further
The pines alone must satisfy. Trams cannot pass.
It is always Sunday there! Plucking little branches,
There the clearing capers, slipping on the grass.

And strewing sunrays, Whitsun, and rambling walks,
The woods will have us say the world was always so:
Conceived like that by forests, hinted to the meadows,
And spilt by clouds as on a chintz design below.

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Boris Pasternak