Tuesday, May 25, 2021

Russian Lit----Ben would get it


 A poem, this time.   By Boris Pasternak

                                       WIND

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

And the wind, keening and complaining,

Makes the country house and the 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.



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