Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap! <br />Summer’s stream won’t run for ever. <br />We can’t pump out the accordion’s roar <br />night after night, in a dusty fever. <br /> <br />I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies! <br />No wave will lift its hands to the stars. <br />They say – who believes? No face in the leaves, <br />no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts. <br /> <br />Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming. <br />It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes? <br />See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething, <br />fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines. <br /> <br />Here, the city’s trolley-lines end. <br />Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees. <br />Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches, <br />the glade running off, sliding on leaves. <br /> <br />Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking, <br />‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood. <br />So the copse planned it, the clearing was told, <br />So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sparrow-hills/
