Here you will find the Poem Sparrow Hills of poet Boris Pasternak
Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap! Summer?s stream won?t run for ever. We can?t pump out the accordion?s roar night after night, in a dusty fever. I?ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies! No wave will lift its hands to the stars. They say ? who believes? No face in the leaves, no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts. Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming. It?s noon in the world. Where are your eyes? See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething, fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines. Here, the city?s trolley-lines end. Beyond there?s no rails, it?s the trees. Beyond ? it?s Sunday, breaking branches, the glade running off, sliding on leaves. Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking, `The world?s always like this?, says the wood. So the copse planned it, the clearing was told, So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.
