Boris Pasternak: Sparrow Hills

My kisses pour over your breast—as from a pitcher! Not forever will the keys of summer turn. Not every night will we stamp our feet to the low bellow of accordions, and raise the dust off the floor.
I've heard of old age—such blighted forecasts! When no wave will strive to reach the stars. They insist—to deaf ears—there is no face in the meadows, no heart in the rivers, no god in the groves.
Put your soul into motion, stretch it like a sail! The world's midday dazzles—where are your eyes? Look up—thoughts boil in the white spume of woodpeckers, fir cones, clouds, pine needles, heat.
The rails for city trolleys end right here. Further on, pines hold sermons. Further on, pines stop. Furthermore, it's Sunday—snapping of branches, romping of clearings, sliding on the grass.


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