Top 11 Best Famous Poems by Boris Pasternak of All Time

Poems by Boris Pasternak
Boris Pasternak

Top 11 Best Famous Poems by Boris Pasternak of All Time | Enjoy & Share with your Friends

Winter Night - Poem by Boris Pasternak

It snowed and snowed ,the whole world over,

Snow swept the world from end to end.

A candle burned on the table;

A candle burned.

 

As during summer midges swarm

To beat their wings against a flame

Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed

To beat against the window pane

 

The blizzard sculptured on the glass

Designs of arrows and of whorls.

A candle burned on the table;

A candle burned.

 

Distorted shadows fell

Upon the lighted ceiling:

Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs-

Of crossed destiny.

 

Two tiny shoes fell to the floor

And thudded.

A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears

Upon a dress.

 

All things vanished within

The snowy murk-white,hoary.

A candle burned on the table;

A candle burned.

 

A corner draft fluttered the flame

And the white fever of temptation

Upswept its angel wings that cast

A cruciform shadow

 

It snowed hard throughout the month

Of February, and almost constantly

A candle burned on the table;

A candle burned.

 

 

A Dream - Poem by Boris Pasternak

I dreamt of autumn in the window's twilight,

And you, a tipsy jesters' throng amidst. '

And like a falcon, having stooped to slaughter,

My heart returned to settle on your wrist.

 

But time went on, grew old and deaf. Like thawing

Soft ice old silk decayed on easy chairs.

A bloated sunset from the garden painted

The glass with bloody red September tears.

 

But time grew old and deaf. And you, the loud one,

Quite suddenly were still. This broke a spell.

The dreaming ceased at once, as though in answer

To an abruptly silenced bell.

 

And I awakened. Dismal as the autumn

The dawn was dark. A stronger wind arose

To chase the racing birchtrees on the skyline,

As from a running cart the streams of straws.

 

 

August - Poem by Boris Pasternak

This was its promise, held to faithfully:

The early morning sun came in this way

Until the angle of its saffron beam

Between the curtains and the sofa lay,

 

And with its ochre heat it spread across

The village houses, and the nearby wood,

Upon my bed and on my dampened pillow

And to the corner where the bookcase stood.

 

Then I recalled the reason why my pillow

Had been so dampened by those tears that fell-

I'd dreamt I saw you coming one by one

Across the wood to wish me your farewell.

 

You came in ones and twos, a straggling crowd;

Then suddenly someone mentioned a word:

It was the sixth of August, by Old Style,

And the Transfiguration of Our Lord.

 

For from Mount Tabor usually this day

There comes a light without a flame to shine,

And autumn draws all eyes upon itself

As clear and unmistaken as a sign.

 

But you came forward through the tiny, stripped,

The pauperly and trembling alder grove,

Into the graveyard's coppice, russet-red,

Which, like stamped gingerbread, lay there and glowed.

 

And with the silence of those high treetops

Was neighbour only the imposing sky

And in the echoed crowing of the cocks

The distances and distances rang by:

 

There in the churchyard underneath the trees,

Like some surveyor from the government

Death gazed on my pale face to estimate

How large a grave would suit my measurement.

 

All those who stood there could distinctly hear

A quiet voice emerge from where I lay:

The voice was mine, my past; prophetic words

That sounded now, unsullied by decay:

 

'Farewell, wonder of azure and of gold

Surrounding the Transfiguration's power:

Assuage now with a woman's last caress

The bitterness of my predestined hour!

 

'Farewell timeless expanse of passing years!

Farewell, woman who flung your challenge steeled

Against the abyss of humiliations:

For it is I who am your battlefield!

 

'Farewell, you span of open wings outspread,

The voluntary obstinacy of flight,

O figure of the world revealed in speech,

Creative genius, wonder-working might!'

 

 

February - Poem by Boris Pasternak

February. Take ink and weep,

write February as you’re sobbing,

while black Spring burns deep

through the slush and throbbing.

 

 

Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,

through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,

go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,

greater than crying or ink employs.

 

 

Where rooks in thousands falling,

like charred pears from the skies,

drop down into puddles, bringing

cold grief to the depths of eyes.

 

 

Below, the black shows through,

and the wind’s furrowed with cries:

the more freely, the more truly

then, sobbing verse is realised.

 

 

March - Poem by Boris Pasternak

The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;

The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below.

Spring -- that corn-fed, husky milkmaid --

Is busy at her chores with never a letup.

 

The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia --

See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)

Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,

And the tines of pitchforks simply glow with health.

 

These days -- these days, and these nights also!

With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon,

With icicles (cachectic!) hanging on to gables,

And with the chattering of rills that never sleep!

 

All doors are flung open -- in stable and in cowbarn;

Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow;

And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter--

The pile of manure -- is pungent with ozone.

 

 

Change - Poem by Boris Pasternak

I used to glorify the poor,

Not simply lofty views expressing:

Their lives alone, I felt, were true,

Devoid of pomp and window-dressing.

 

No stranger to the manor house,

Its finery and lordly tenor,

I was a friend of down-and-outs,

And shunned the idly sponging manner.

 

For choosing friendship in the ranks

Of working people, though no rebel,

I had the honour to be stamped

As also one among the rabble.

 

The state of basements, unadorned,

Of attics with no frills or curtains

Was tangible without pretence

And full of substance, weighty, certain.

 

And I went bad when rot defaced

Our time, and life became infested,

When grief was censured as disgrace

And all played optimists and yes-men.

 

My faith in those who seemed my friends

Was broken and our ties were sundered.

I, too, lost Man, the Human, since

He had been lost by all and sundry.

 

 

Hops - Poem by Boris Pasternak

Beneath the willow wound round with ivy

we take cover from the worst

of the storm, with a greatcoat round

our shoulders and my hands around your waist.

 

I've got it wrong. That isn't ivy

entwined in the bushes round

the wood, but hops. You intoxicate me!

Let's spread the greatcoat on the ground.

 

 

Autumn - Poem by Boris Pasternak

I have allowed my family to scatter,

All those who were my dearest to depart,

And once again an age-long loneliness

Comes in to fill all nature and my heart.

 

Alone this cottage shelters me and you:

The wood is an unpeopled wilderness

And ways and footpaths wear, as in the song.

Weeds almost overgrowing each recess;

 

And where we sit together by ourselves

The log walls gaze upon us mournfully.

We gave no promise to leap obstacles,

We shall yet face our end with honesty.

 

At one we'll sit, at three again we'll rise,

My book with me, your sewing in your hand,

Nor with the dawning shall we realize

When all our kissing shall have had an end.

 

You leaves, more richly and more recklessly

Rustle your dresses, spill yourselves away,

And fill a past day's cup of bitterness

Still higher with the anguish of today!

 

All this delight, devotion and desire!

We'll fling ourselves into September's riot!

Immure yourself within the autumn's rustle

Entirely: go crazy, or be quiet!

 

How when you fall into my gentle arms

Enrobed in that silk-tasselled dressing gown

You shake the dress you wear away from you

As only coppices shake their leaves down!-

 

You are the blessing on my baneful way,

When life has depths worse than disease can reach,

And courage is the only root of beauty,

And it is this that draws us each to each.

 

 

Confession - Poem by Boris Pasternak

Life returned with a cause-the way

Some strange chance once interrupted it.

Just as on that distant summer day,

I am standing in the same old street.

 

People are the same, and people's worries,

And the sunset's still a fireball,

Just the way death's night once in a hurry

Nailed it to the ancient mansion's wall.

 

Women, in the same cheap clothes attired,

Are still wearing down their shoes at night.

Afterwards, against the roofing iron

They are by the garrets crucified.

 

Here is one of them. She looks so weary

As she steps across the threshold, and

Rising from the basement, drab and dreary,

Walks across the courtyard on a slant.

 

And again I'm ready with excuses,

And again it's all the same to me.

And the neighbour in the backyard pauses,

Then goes out of sight, and leaves us be.

 

_____

 

 

Don't cry, do not purse your lips up,

They're puffy as it is, dear.

Mind you don't break the drying scab

Of smouldering spring fever.

 

Your hand is on my breast. Let go!

We are like two live wires.

If we aren't careful, we'll be thrown

Together unawares.

 

The years will pass, you'll marry yet

And you'll forget this squalor.

To be a woman is a feat,

To drive men mad, that's valour.

 

And as for me, I've been in thrall

For ages-begged like alms,

And worshipped the great miracle

Of woman's neck, back, arms.

 

Though bound tight, at the end of day,

By the anguished darkness' loop,

I'm ever lured to get away-

I long to break things up.

 

 

Hamlet - Poem by Boris Pasternak

The murmurs ebb; onto the stage I enter.

I am trying, standing in the door,

To discover in the distant echoes

What the coming years may hold in store.

 

The nocturnal darkness with a thousand

Binoculars is focused onto me.

Take away this cup, O Abba Father,

Everything is possible to Thee.

 

I am fond of this Thy stubborn project,

And to play my part I am content.

But another drama is in progress,

And, this once, O let me be exempt.

 

But the plan of action is determined,

And the end irrevocably sealed.

I am alone; all round me drowns in falsehood:

Life is not a walk across a field.

 

 

After The Storm - Poem by Boris Pasternak

The air is full of after-thunder freshness,

And everything rejoices and revives.

With the whole outburst of its purple clusters

The lilac drinks the air of paradise.

 

The gutters overflow; the change of weather

Makes all you see appear alive and new.

Meanwhile the shades of sky are growing lighter,

Beyond the blackest cloud the height is blue.

 

An artist's hand, with mastery still greater

Wipes dirt and dust off objects in his path.

Reality and life, the past and present,

Emerge transformed out of his colour-bath.

 

The memory of over half a lifetime

Like swiftly passing thunder dies away.

The century is no more under wardship:

High time to let the future have its say.

 

It is not revolutions and upheavals

That clear the road to new and better days,

But revelations, lavishness and torments

Of someone's soul, inspired and ablaze.

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