The Steppe

 by Boris Pasternak

The Steppe 

How lovely those journeys into quiet!

Boundless the steppe, like a seascape,

ants rustle, and the feather-grass sighs,

mosquitoes go whining through space.

The hayricks line up with the clouds,

volcano after volcano, they fade.

Grown silent, damp, the boundless steppe,

you drift, you’re buffeted, you sway.

The mist overtakes us, washes, a sea,

and burrs are clinging to stockings, today

it’s lovely to tramp the steppe’s shore,

you drift, you’re buffeted, you sway.

Is that a rick in the mist? Who knows?

Is that one ours? Yes, it’s found.

There! Yes, that’s it all right, though.

The rick, and the mist, and the steppe all round.

And the Milky Way slants towards Kerch,

like a path that cattle have stamped on.

Go past the houses, you’ll lose your breath,

on every side, broad, broad horizons.

Shadowy midnight stands by the way,

strewn with stars, that touch every verst,

and you can’t cross it, beyond the fence,

without trampling the universe.

When did the stars sweep down so low,

midnight sink so deep in tall grass,

and drenched muslin, afraid, aglow,

long for a dénouement at last?

Let the steppe judge, and night decide.

When, if not in the Beginning,

did Mosquitoes whine, Ants ride,

and Burrs go clinging to stockings?

Close them, my darling! Or go blind!

The whole steppe’s as before the Fall:

All, drowned in peace, like a parachute,

like a heaving vision, All. 

The Patient Watches

The patient watches. Six days long

In frenzy blizzards rave relentlessly,

Roll over rooftops, roar along,

Brace, rage, and fall, collapsing senselessly.

In snowstorms Christmas is consumed.

He dreams: they came and lifted someone.

He starts: 'Whom? Me?' There was a call,

A tolling bell… Not New Year's summons?

Far, in the Kremlin, booms Ivan,

Dives, drowns, resounds in swaying motion.

He sleeps. When great, a blizzard can

Be called Pacific, as the Ocean. 

The Road 

Down into the ravine, then forward

Up the embankment to the top,

The ribbon of the road runs snaking

Through wood and field without a stop.

By all the precepts of perspective

Well-surfaced highway windings rush

Among the fields, among the meadows,

Not raising dust, nor stuck in slush.

The peaceful pond nearby ignoring

(On which a duck with ducklings swam)

The road once more is forward soaring

On having crossed and left the dam.

Now-down a slope again it hastens,

Now-on and upwards, in a climb,

As only life, maybe, is meant to

Strain up and onward all the time.

Through thousands of unheard-of fancies,

Through times and countries, climb and fall,

Through helps and hindrances it races

Relentless, too, towards a goal;

And this is to have lived your fullest,

Experienced all-at home, abroad-

Just as the landscape now is livened

By twists and turnings of the road.