Boris Pasternak
On Early Trains

I’ve been near Moscow through this winter,
But through the frost, as snow falls down,
As I have had to, I have travelled
To do my business in the town.

I ventured forth one morning, early,
When there was no one on the street,
And through the dark and frigid forest
Resounded creak of treading feet.

And looming at me at the crossroads
The wasteland willows there arose.
Transcendent, constellations towered,
In January’s pit the shadows froze.

The mail train or the number forty,
As usual as I would arrive
Would trying be to overtake me,
But mine was at six twenty-five.

And suddenly the cunning wrinkles
Of light were gathered in a ball.
A searchlight strobed with mighty power
And viaduct was in its thrall.

Once in the fetid airless carriage
The weight of dread upon me pressed —
I grasped again that innate weakness
I’d had when sucking at the breast.

Through all the troubles we have been through,
The years of war and stricken straits,
I had in silence then discovered
How so unmatched were Russia’s traits.

And I was lost in adoration,
In awe I looked around me then.
For here sat crones and out-of-towners
And eager lads and working men.

Of servitude there wasn’t any
In those whom need had often floored
And all the news and lack of comfort
They took upon them like the Lord.

And in the carriage there they huddled,
As children and the young they read
And all, adopting various poses,
Impassioned on those words they fed.

And in the dark, now streaked with silver,
Was Moscow brave awaiting us
And, leaving dappled light behind, we
Emerged on street without a fuss.

Our future pressed against the railings
And as we left were senses doused
By floral scent of soapy lather
And gingerbread with honey soused.

Translated by Rupert Moreton