Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Boris Pasternak

The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below
Spring -that corn-fed, husky milkmaid-
Is busy at her chores with never a letup.
The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia-
See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)
Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,
And the lines of pitchforks simply glow with health.
These days--these days and these nights also,
With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon,
With icicles (cachectic) hanging onto gables,
And with the chattering of rills that never sleep!
All doors are flung open- in stable and cowbarn;
Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow,
And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter -
The pile of manure- is pungent with ozone.

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