Boris Pasternak (10 February 1890 - 30 May 1960 / Moscow)
After the Interval
About three months ago, when first
Upon our open, unprotected
And freezing garden snowstorms burst
In sudden fury, I reflected
That I would shut myself away
And in seclusion write a section
Of winter poems, day by day,
To supplement my spring collection.
But nonsense piled up mountain-high,
Like snow-drifts hindering and stifling
And half the winter had gone by,
Against all hopes, in petty trifling.
I understood, alas, too late
Why winter-while the snow was falling,
Piercing the darkness with its flakes-
From outside at my house was calling;
And while with numb white-frozen lips
It whispered, urging me to hurry,
I sharpened pencils, played with clips,
Made feeble jokes and did not worry.
While at my desk I dawdled on
By lamp-light on an early morning,
The winter had appeared and gone-
A wasted and unheeded warning.
Poet Other Poems
- ‘February. Take ink and weep,’
- ‘Like a brazier’s bronze cinders,’
- ‘My sister – Life’s overflowing today’
- A Dream
- A Sultrier Dawn
- A tall, strapping shot, you, considerate...
- A Walts With a Tear in It
- About These Poems
- After the Interval
- After The Storm
- Autumn Frost
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