Boris Pasternak

I’m gone, but you’re alive, my grace,
And a wind, in bitter cry and grouse,
Swings all – the wood and country house. 
Not every pine, alone taken,
But all these trees, the whole place, 
The whole distance, merged with heaven – 
Like bodies of the anchored sails
On floor of the defending haven.
He does it not to meet bold plots,
Or satisfy his sightless fierce,
But just to find these very words
For your sweet lullaby, in grievance 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001