The Poetry of Yuri Zhivago - Boris Pasternak

Wind

I have died, but you are still among the living.

And the wind, keening and complaining,

Makes the country house and forest rock –

Not each pine by itself

But all the trees as one,

Together with the illimitable distance;

It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats

Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat basin.

And this the wind does not out of bravado

Or in a senseless rage,

But so that in its desolation

It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.

Translated by Yakov Hornstein

“The Poems of Yuri Zhivago” from the novel, Doctor Zhivago

Boris Leonidovich Pasternak (1890-1960)