Boris Pasternak

My kisses pour over your breast—as from a pitcher! Not forever will the keys of summer turn. Not every night will we stamp our feet to the low bellow of accordions, and raise the dust off the floor. I've heard of old age—such blighted forecas [...]

How can we slow time down? How can we shed rot, Raspad? Sleepless nights on the Volga coast unleash miracles. Where the eye relied on the droughty steppe for mercy, there, in swirling mist, the haystack of revolution rises. In distant granaries a [...]

How can we slow time down? How can we shed rot, Raspad? Sleepless nights on the Volga coast unleash miracles. Where the eye relied on the droughty steppe for mercy, there, in swirling mist, the haystack of revolution rises. In distant granaries a [...]

The spirit sweats—the horizon's tobacco tinged—like thought. Windmills image a fishing village: boats and weathered nets. The village of frozen windmills hovers like a motionless harbor. All smells of a weary stasis: nothing, nothing stirs. [...]