Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!
Summer-s stream won-t run for ever.
We can-t pump out the accordion-s roar
night after night, in a dusty fever.
I-ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!
No wave will lift its hands to the stars.
They say - who believes? No face in the leaves,
no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.
Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.
It-s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?
See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,
fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.
Here, the city-s trolley-lines end.
Beyond there-s no rails, it-s the trees.
Beyond - it-s Sunday, breaking branches,
the glade running off, sliding on leaves.
Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,
-The world-s always like this-, says the wood.
So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,
So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.
Sparrow Hills
Boris Pasternak
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Poem topics: city, cloud, running, summer, soul, face, terrible, walking, fever, sunday, beneath, Valentine's Day, stream, night, world, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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