Boris Pasternak
Margarete

Bursting himself through bushes, as if from the snare
Of Margarete’s tight hot lips of purple,
While the whites of her eyes stared,
Curled, flicked, grew firm, shone like a nightingale.

It was like the smell from grass. Like mercury
Hanging in the mad rain between bird-cherry trees.
It stupefied the bark. It approached the mouth squarely
With choking. It persisted in the plaited braids.

And, stunned by the hand’s deceit,
Margarete, through gleaming silver eyes,
Seemed like a helmet under rain in a forest
That poured lacking an Amazonian force.

With hands clasped at the back of her head,
She backed off, lightly, transfixed there,
Her helmet hung in the shade, while he emerged
Bursting himself through bushes, as if from a snare.

Translated by Don Mager