Boris Pasternak
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«Moon above the river drifted, / Fireflies glimmered on the bank, / Here a wreath to head I lifted, / Drowning, ’neath the waters sank. Kiev whitens, Dnieper skirts, / By the Dnieper mermaid’s singing. / From her scales a glitter flirts… / Sorrow from me maybe wringing – Eyes ha...»
«I will grow out reaching you / As grass that wedges through the ground, / As bud that tends to be a bloom / In longing wish to get aroused. It bursts upon the morning view / When no one can scent and watch it, / But it already shines with dew / And dries should Sun come up and tou...»
«I bless you, forests, / Valleys, corn-fields, hills, waters, / I bless Freedom / And blue skies! / And my work I bless, / And this poor wallet, / And the steppe from end to end, / And light of sun, and darkness of night, / And the lonely footpath / Along which, a beggar, I travel, ...»
«With sharp axe the birch tree is wounded, / On the silvery bark the tears roll down. / Do not weep, birch tree, poor thing, do not grieve, / The wound is not mortal, thou wilt be healed by summer, / Thou shalt flaunt, adorned with leaves — / But a sick heart will not heal up its wound.»