Boris Pasternak
Encounter with Love

The roads pile up with snow.
The roofs have snow galore.
Perhaps, to stretch I’ll go —
You stand outside the door.

Alone. In autumn wear.
No hat, no rubber shoes.
You feign you do not care —
Your mouth, though, snowflakes chews.

The trees and fences steer
Away into the dark.
Alone you stand so near
As snowfall fills the park.

And off your shawl some snow
Drips down into the cuff.
Your hair is all aglow
With dewdrops hanging tough.

A lock of fairest hair
Illuminates your face,
The figure, shawl and — there,
This coat you wear with grace.

Your lashes, too, are wet;
Your eyes betray unease,
And all of you seems made
Of one unbroken piece.

As if an iron pin
Had dipped in dye in part
And etched you from within
Across my throbbing heart.

Your features born contrite
Had grabbed my heart for good,
And hence I do not mind
The world that’s cruel and crude.

And hence this snowy night
That’s doubled for our sake,
And there is no divide
Between us I can make.

But who are we, from where,
If all those years galore
Left nothing but hot air,
Yet we are here no more? 

Translated by Yuri Menis