Boris Pasternak
There Was

Later on, there was the loft with hay
And it smelled like a wine cork
While August ran out of days
And weeds took over like the tropics.

In the grass, on the sorrel, beads
Of sullen diamonds hung,
Chilling the taste-buds
Reminding of Riesling.

September made headlines
Dragging equipment through mud,
It flew in wearing the scent
Of pending bad weather.

It froze the yard into water and wine
Yellowing the sand and the puddles,
And the sky squirted lead down
In arcs onto window panes.

It burnished them, flying
From bush to peasants to shed,
And leaped from the panes
To the door and fired the leaves red.

Here are signs of joy. Here, the words
Vin gai, vin trist,  — but trust me,
That sorrel — grass, just grass,
And Riesling’s name — dusty.

There was a night. Trembling lips
Were offered. On eyelids hung
Sullen diamonds. Rain whipped
The brain with no clear notion

It seemed not real love, — I pray
But it’s never enough, — passing,
Not for age, nor hour, a mollusk drifts
In phosphorescent happiness.

Like music: the ages cry,
And song dares not to weep,
It trembles but won’t break “ah!” —
Into coralline palpability.

Translated by Don Mager