1 <br /> <br />When in front of you hangs the day with its <br />Smallest detail-fine or crude- <br />The intensely hot cracking squirrel-sounds <br />Do not cease in the resinous wood. <br /> <br />The high line of pine-trees stands asleep, <br />Drinking in and storing strength, <br />And the wood is peeling and drip by drip <br />Is shedding freckled sweat. <br /> <br />2 <br /> <br />From miles of calm the garden sickens, <br />The stupor of the angered glen <br />Is more alarming than an evil <br />Wild storm, a frightful hurricane. <br /> <br />The garden's mouth is dry, and smells of <br />Decay, of nettles, roofing, fear… <br />The cattle's bellowing is closing <br />Its ranks. A thunderstorm is near. <br /> <br />3 <br /> <br />On the bushes grow the tatters <br />Of disrupted clouds; the garden <br />Has its mouth full of damp nettles: <br />Such - the smell of storms and treasures. <br /> <br />Tired shrubs are sick of sighing. <br />Patches in the sky increase. The <br />Barefoot blueness has the gait of <br />Cautious herons in the marshes. <br /> <br />And they gleam, like lips that glisten, <br />When the hand forgets to wipe them: <br />Supple willow-switches, oak-leaves, <br />And the hoofprints by the horsepond.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-variants/
