Boris Pasternak
Lyubka

to V. V. Goltsev

Not long ago the rain walked through this clearing
Like a surveyor. Now with tinsel bait
The lily of the valley's leaves are weighted.
And water got into the mullein's ears.

These are the frigid fir trees' quondam nurslings,
Their ear lobes stretched with dew; they shun the day.
And grow apart, single and solitary.
Even their odors separately disbursed.

When it is teatime in the summer villas,
The fog fills the mosquito's sail, and night.
Plucking the strings of a guitar but lightly.
Stands among pansies in a mistlike milk.

Then with nocturnal violet all is scented.
Faces and years. And thoughts. Every event
That from the thievish past can be commanded
And in the future taken from Fate’s hand.

Translated by Babette Deutsch