Boris Pasternak

Here you will find the Poem A Sultrier Dawn of poet Boris Pasternak

A Sultrier Dawn

All morning high up on the eaves 
Above your window 
A dove kept cooing. 
Like shirtsleeves The boughs seemed frayed.
It drizzled. Clouds came low to raid 
The dusty marketplace. 
My anguish on a peddlar's tray 
They rocked; 
I was afraid. 
I begged the clouds that they should stop. 
It seemed that they could hear me. 
Dawn was as grey as in the shrub 
Grey prisoners' angry murmur. 

I pleaded with them to bring near 
The hour when I would hear 
Tidbits of shattered songs
And your wash-basin's roar and splash 
Like mountain torrents' headlong rush, 
The heat of cheek and brow 
On glass as hot as ice and on 
The pier-glass table flow. 
My plea could not be heard on high 
Because the clouds 
Talked much too loud 
Behind their flag in powdered quiet 
Wet like a heavy army coat, 
Like threshed sheaves' dusty rub-a-dub 
Or like a quarrel in the shrub. 

I pleaded with them- 
Don't torment me! 
I can't sleep. 
But-it was drizzling; dragging feet, 
The clouds marched down the dusty street 
Like recruits from the village in the morning. 
They dragged themselves along 
An hour or an age, 
Like prisoners of war, 
Or like the dying wheeze: 
'Nurse please, 
Some water.'