Boris Pasternak
Marburg

I winced. Catching fire, I shivered with cold,
Just made a proposal of marriage. Too late —
I was nervous and frightened; her answer was no. —
I am grieved with her tears. And more blessed than a saint!

I went out on the square. It seemed I was born
for a second time. Each insignificant particle
lived, and looking me over with scorn,
was raised in importance by the power of parting.

The flagstones burned hot; the dark brow of the street
Frowned at the sky, and the cobbles looked sullen.
The wind, like a boatman, rowed over the lime trees.
Each thing was a likeness, and all was symbolic.

Be it as it may, I avoided their eyes,
Ignoring their greetings and cheers.
For all their abundance I could not care less.
I tore myself free, lest I burst into tears.

My natural instinct, lickspittle old man,
was unbearable to me. He slunk by my side
and thought: “Lady love, an old childish prank...
The boy must be watched... I shall need both my eyes.”

“Take a step, and another,” instructed my instinct,
and led me with wisdom, like an ancient scholastic,
through the maze of primeval, impassable thickets
of sun-heated pine trees, lilac, and passion.

“First learn to walk slowly, then run as you choose.” —
And a new sun in zenith watched with attention
how lessons in walking were given anew
to a native of Earth in some other dimension.

To some this was blindingly dazzling. To others —
blindingly black. In the bushes of asters
chickens were scratching. There was buzzing of insects,
and, like miniature watches, the ticking of crickets.

A tile floated by, the burning noon stared
unblinking at cables and roofs. And in Marburg
someone, whistling loudly, was making a crossbow:
others, silent, prepared for the Pentecost Fair.

Devouring the clouds, the sand yellowed and dried.
The gathering storm brushed the brows of the shrubbery.
From the airless expanses, the waterless sky
fell down on some blood-stilling arnica.

Like any rep Romeo hugging his tragic part,
I reeled through the city rehearsing you.
I carried you all that day, knew you by heart
From the comb in your hair to the foot in your shoe.

And then, when I fell on my knees and embraced
the whole of that fog, of that ice, of that surface —
(How splendid you are!) — of that storm, suffocating...
Please don’t! Be yourself! It is hopeless. Rejected.

Here lived Martin Luther. There — the brothers Grimm.
Gables like talons. Lime trees. And gravestones.
And all this remembers and hungers for them.
Everything lives. And is likeness and symbols.

No, I won’t go there tomorrow. Rejection
is more than farewell. All is clear. We are quits.
Not for us is the hustle of platforms and stations.
O time-honored stones, what will happen with me?

Hold-alls will be placed on the racks. And a moon
will be put in each window of every compartment.
Anguish, having selected a book,
will be silently reading, as one of the passengers.

Why am I frightened? As well as my grammar
I know my insomnia. We two are allied.
Then why do I dread, like a call from a madman,
My usual thoughts, so long known and well tried?

For the nights do sit down to play chess with me often
on the moonlight checkered parquetry flooring.
There is scent of acacia, the windows are open,
and passion, as a witness, goes gray in the corner.

And a poplar is king. I play with insomnia.
And queen is a nightingale. I long for the nightingale.
The night wins the game. Each piece moves aside.
A white morning advances and is recognized.

Translated by Yakov Hornstein