Boris Pasternak
From Superstition

A cardboard box of sugared orange —
        My little garret.
No need to trudge through dingy lodgings
        To the mortuary!

I moved again into this room —
        From superstition.
The paper on the walls is brown,
        The door is singing.

I held the latch to keep you in.
        Your fight was valiant.
My forehead brushed your fragrant fringe,
        My lips touched violets.

Child, for the sake of all the former
        Times, now again
Your whole attire calls, like a snowdrop
        To April: Hail!

You came and brought the chair yourself.
        You are no vestal:
Took down my life as from a shelf,
        And blew the dust off.

Translated by Yakov Hornstein