Sparrow Hills
Boris Pasternak


Like water pouring from a pitcher, my mouth on your nipples!
Not always. The summer well runs dry.
Not for long the dust of our stamping feet, encore on encore
from the saxes in the casino's midnight gazebo.

I've heard of age—its obese warbling!
When no wave will clap hands to the stars.
If they speak, you doubt it. No face in the meadows,
no heart in the pools, no god among the pines

Split your soul like wood. Let today froth from your mouth
It's the world's noontide. Have you no eyes for it?
Look, conception bubbles form the bleached fallows;
fir-cones, woodpeckers, clouds, pine-needles, heat

Here the city's trolley tracks give out.
Further, you must put up with peeled pine. The trolley poles are
       detached.
Further, it's Sunday. Boughs screwed loose for the picnic bonfire,
playing tag in your bra.

The world is always like this," say the woods,
as they mix the midday glare, Whitsunday and walking.
All's planned with checkerberry couches, inspired with clearings—
the piebald clouds spill down on us like a country woman's house-dress.

Translated by Robert Lowell


_____________________________________________________


Sparrow Hills
Boris Pasternak


Kisses on your breast like water from an ewer;
But not forever, summer is no ever-flowing spring.
Nor shall we, night after night, raise up from the dust
The accordion's drone, stamping and pounding our feet.

I have heard about old age. Dreadful prophecy!
Not one crest of a wave will reach for the stars.
They say — you won't believe it — there is no face on the 
       meadows;
In the pond, no heart; no god in the pine grove.

Set your soul rocking! Today all is frenzied:
This is the high noon of the world. Use your eyes! Look!
In the hilltops, thought is whipped to a white boiling
Of woodpeckers, clouds, heat, pine cones, and needles.

Here the rails of the city trolleys come to an end.
From there on the pine trees take their place —
The end of the line for machines. The beginning of Sunday.
A breaking of branches, a caper of clearings and slidings on
       grass.

Here, filtering sunlight, Whitsunday, walking about,
The woods beg belief: The world is always so!
This is the thought of the forest depth, the meadow's
       intimation;
Thus, on us, on colorful calico, it is poured from clouds.


Translated by Phillip C. Flayderman