Boris Pasternak
TWO POEMS
THE MEETING
Since six o'clock-since four-since two–
That morning water had been tearing
Out of sockets, pipes and pools,
Off fences, roofs-from wind.
On slippery sidewalks wind had torn
The water up like gunnysack;
And you could walk as far as Podolsk
And not meet a single soul.
Six o'clock: and on a scrap
Of landscape, from steps grown
Suddenly sodden, a weary "See you tomorrow,"
Split off and crashed into the water.
Far off with automatic block
And grinding tackle, relishing
The drains of coming day, the East
Cast its spell mechanically.
And blowsy distance, all dolled-up,
And dozing over cold kvass soup
In frost, cried out and gave a cough
From March's drunken bouillabaisse.
The cold hand of the landscape led
The author and the March night as
They walked, side by side and still
Disputing, from that
meetin~
home.
