Boris Pasternak
Roosters

Nightlong the water labored breathlessly.
Till morning came, the rain burned linseed oil.
Now vapor from beneath the lilac lid
Pours forth: earth steams like shchee that's near the boil.

And when the grass, shaking itself, leaps up.
Oh, who will tell the dew how scared I am —
The moment the first cock begins to yawp.
And then one more, and then — the lot of them?

They name the years as these roll by in turn,
And on each darkness, as it goes, they call.
Foretelling thus the change that is to come
To rain, to earth, to love — to each and all.

Translated by Babette Deutsch