Poems by Boris Pasternak
The Book of Hours
... s horse, and the old custodian wipes palm prints from the glass, the monks ...
White Night
... The street-lamps, like gauze butterflies fluttering, ...
Autumn Frost
... The frost is covered up in gooseflesh, ...
Winter Sky
... the past weeks stars all frozen in flight, ...
With Oars at Rest
... strong Hercules holding it, clasping still fonder ...
I hang limp on the Creator's pen
... the air From the railways is sodden and sticky, ...
Things of great worth shall come to pass...
... Their tracks, like letters traced in sand, ...
A Sultrier Dawn
... Like recruits from the village in the morning ...
A tall, strapping shot, you, considerate hunter...
... Start me, I pray, from the reeds in the morning, ...
Ploughing Time
... Ploughed fields, like squares upon a chessboard, ...
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping...
... Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing ...
I would go home againto rooms...
... Right through; yes, like a beam I'll pass, ...
First Snow
... While snowflakes blind and blanket out ...
To Boris Pilnyak
... In highest councils, in those spheres where reign ...
Do not fret, do not cry, do not tax...
... Your last strength, and your heart do not torture ...
