Boris Pasternak
Summer

Athirst for insects, butterflies.
And stains we long had waited,
And round us both were memories
Of heat, mint, honey plaited.

No clocks chimed, but the flail rang clear
From dawn to dusk and planted
Its dreams of stings into the air.
The weather was enchanted.

Strolled sunset to its heart’s content,
They yielded to cicadas
And stars and trees its government
Of gardens and of larders.

The moon in absence, out of sight.
Not shade but baulks was throwing.
And softly, softly the shy night
From cloud to cloud was flowing.

From dream more than from roof, and more
Forgetful than faint-hearted.
Soft rain was shuffling at the door
And smell of wine-corks spurted.

So smelt the dust. So smelt the grass
And if we chanced to heed them.
Smell from the gentry’s teaching was
Of brotherhood and freedom.

The councils met in villages;
Weren’t you with those that held them?
Bright with wood-sorrel hung the days,
And smell of wine-corks filled them.

Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra