Boris Pasternak Poems

A man is standing in the hall
His house not recognizing.
Her sudden leaving was a flight,
Herself, maybe, surprising.
...

It's a whistle blown ripe in a trice,
It's the cracking of ice in a gale,
It's a night that turns green leaves to ice,
...

By water's edge, quiet willows stand,
And from the steep bank, high noon flings
White fleecy clouds into the pond
...

The morning sun shows like a pillar
Of fire through smoke on frosty days.
As on a faulty snap, it cannot
Make out my features in the haze.
...

Under osiers with ivy ingrown
We are trying to hide from bad weather.
I am clasping your arms in my own,
In one cloak we are huddled together.
...

They stood, almost blocking the pavement,
As though at a window display;
The stretcher was pushed in position,
...

It's spring, I leave a street where poplars are astonished,
Where distance is alarmed and the house fears it may fall.
...

A ghost is roaming through the building,
And shadows in the attic browse;
Persistently intent on mischief
A goblin roams about the house.
...

Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
...

People clean their homes before the feast.
Stepping from the bustle of the street
I go down before Thee on my knees
...