Spring bursts violently <br />into Moscow houses. <br />Moths flutter about <br />crawl on summer hats, <br />and furs hide secretly. <br /> <br />Pots of wallflowers and stock <br />stand, in the window, just, <br />of wooden second storeys, <br />the rooms breathe liberty, <br />the smell of attics is dust. <br /> <br />The street is friends <br />with the bleary glass, <br />and white night and sunset <br />at one, by the river, pass. <br /> <br />In the passage you’ll know <br />what’s going on below <br />and April’s casual flow <br />of words with drops of thaw. <br /> <br />It’s a thousand stories veiled <br />in a human sadness, <br />and twilight along the fence <br />grows chill with the tale. <br /> <br />Outside, or snug at home <br />the same fire and hesitation: <br />everywhere air’s unsure. <br />The same cut willow twigs, <br /> <br />the same white swell of buds, <br />at crossroads, windows above, <br />in streets, and workshop-doors. <br /> <br />Then why does the far horizon weep <br />in mist, and the soil smell bitter? <br />After all, it’s my calling, surely, <br />to see no distance is lonely, <br />and past the town boundary, <br />to see that earth doesn’t suffer. <br /> <br />That’s why in early spring <br />we meet, my friends and I, <br />and our evenings are – farewell documents, <br />our gatherings are – testaments, <br />so the secret stream of suffering <br />may warm the cold of life.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-earth-6/
