How lovely those journeys into quiet! <br />Boundless the steppe, like a seascape, <br />ants rustle, and the feather-grass sighs, <br />mosquitoes go whining through space. <br /> <br />The hayricks line up with the clouds, <br />volcano after volcano, they fade. <br />Grown silent, damp, the boundless steppe, <br />you drift, you’re buffeted, you sway. <br /> <br />The mist overtakes us, washes, a sea, <br />and burrs are clinging to stockings, today <br />it’s lovely to tramp the steppe’s shore, <br />you drift, you’re buffeted, you sway. <br /> <br />Is that a rick in the mist? Who knows? <br />Is that one ours? Yes, it’s found. <br />There! Yes, that’s it all right, though. <br />The rick, and the mist, and the steppe all round. <br /> <br />And the Milky Way slants towards Kerch, <br />like a path that cattle have stamped on. <br />Go past the houses, you’ll lose your breath, <br />on every side, broad, broad horizons. <br /> <br />Shadowy midnight stands by the way, <br />strewn with stars, that touch every verst, <br />and you can’t cross it, beyond the fence, <br />without trampling the universe. <br /> <br />When did the stars sweep down so low, <br />midnight sink so deep in tall grass, <br />and drenched muslin, afraid, aglow, <br />long for a dénouement at last? <br /> <br />Let the steppe judge, and night decide. <br />When, if not in the Beginning, <br />did Mosquitoes whine, Ants ride, <br />and Burrs go clinging to stockings? <br /> <br />Close them, my darling! Or go blind! <br />The whole steppe’s as before the Fall: <br />All, drowned in peace, like a parachute, <br />like a heaving vision, All.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-steppe/
